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POPULAR STORIES 

By the same author 



THAT GIRL MONTANA 

TOLD IN THE HILLS 

A PAGAN OF THE ALLEGHENIES 

IN love’s domains 

THE BONDWOMAN 

MISS MOCCASINS 

SQUAW ELOUISE 

MY QUAKER MAID 

MERZE 



A FLOWER OF FRANCE 








Mademoiselle Felice 


A Flower of France 


By 

MARAH ELLIS RYAN 

II 


A uthor of 

“That Girl Montana,” 

“Told in the Hills,” “A Pagan of the Alleghenies,” 
“In Love’s Domains,” etc. 

Illustrated by 

H. s. Delay 


RAND McNALLY & COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 

CHICAGO NEW YORK 



? 


Copyright, 1804, 

By Rand, McNally & Co. 

Copyright, 1914, 

By Rand, McNally & Co. 


^anb-plc^all^ 

Chicago 



Jill ?4 1914 


©CI.A380012 


'>M)/ 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER page 

Prologue. The Insurrection ... 9 

1 . The Brand of the Fleur-de-lis .20 

11 . Venda 36 

III. Two Strangers from France .... 53 

IV. “ Master, Buy Me ! ” 1 6 S 

V. An Evening with Monsieur Lamort . 79 

VI. The Next Morning 120 

VII. Denise of the Convent 135 

VIII. The Man Rochelle 163 

IX. The Voudou 194 

X. Echoes FROM THE Past 219 

XI. The Wooing of Ninon 249 

XII. Diego Zanalta Lays Plans and Senora 

Zanalta Speaks Her Mind . -265 

XIII. Monsieur Lamort Pays a Visit . . . 284 • 

XIV. Diego Sees a Ghost 294 

XV. Venda 301 

XVI. A Rendezvous 313 

XVII. Denise and Sister Andrfa 329 

XVIII. Once More Zizi 333 


5 





V.' j . i • '' '• ■ 


1 ' ' 





- . ,:*«9 V- ' ’'^ f 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


Mademoiselle Felice 


Frontispiece 


FACING PAGE 

White man’s love made that . 26 

In his arms was a slight, rose-draped figure 112 

She swayed backward and forward, with eyes half closed . 118 


Before him there stood only a slave-woman with white hair 

and the splintered stick in her hand 190 

She dared not hope that the portrait I am to make of her 

will be such a treasure as the one I am doing now . . 202 


I am only Denise of the convent, and I know but little of / 

the world’s ways 230 

We do not knife slaves in our parlors, Don Zanalta . . 338 



A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


PROLOGUE 

THE INSURRECTION 

The golden light of morning crept through the 
pale curtains of vapor that were spread over the 
bayous north of Orleans Island. The awakening 
beams gilded the gray-green festoons of moss- 
draped, century-old cypresses, and touched caress- 
ingly the white-winged herons that rose softly 
from shadowy wood-depths and took silent flight 
outward and upward in the October air. A flock 
of vultures, many as a gathering of crows in au- 
tumn, sailed low over the swamps and with out- 
stretched necks reached eagerly toward the west, 
where the mighty river of the New World 
dragged its way to the sea through many chan- 
nels. Occult sounds drifted along the brown waters 
of the bayous — smothered, misty sounds of for- 
est creatures. Now and then the shrill scream 
of a bird would cut sharply across the humming 
song of the insects and the soft rustle of the reeds, 
and again the muffled howls of animals would 
come across the vast levels and warn one of dan- 
gers lurking in the savage gloom of the forests. 


(9) 


10 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


Small wonder if the slave of the Afric coast and 
the courtier from the French court, alike dreaded 
the jungles of that vast unsurveyed portion of 
New France stretching north and east from the 
little settlement of Acadians, and west past the 
domains of the weak and friendly Alibamon race, 
and into the hunting-grounds of the fierce nations. 

Demons of Indian superstition, and the aveng- 
ing gods from Afric land, were known to lurk just 
outside the cultivated plantations, eager to hurl 
strange ills on the colonist who dared to tempt 
fate by sleeping in the perfumed shadows of those 
mysterious depths. But past the myrtle and or- 
ange orchards (mementos of the banished Jesu- 
its) a pirogue drove through the clear brown 
water of Bayou Petite and headed toward the 
places of dread, slipping through the willows 
where each sinuous belt of water entered seemed 
just like the one left behind. 

No other canoe was seen on the waters that 
morning. Never a boatman of France or of Spain 
called greeting across the levels. Of all the col- 
onists, no others were without the gates of the 
town that morning, where, in the Place d’Armes, 
an excited, gesticulating mass thronged. Cheers 
for the King of France sounded under the win- 
dows of the Spanish governor, while the tricolor 
was run aloft and floated gracefully, dreamily, 
over the insurrectionists, who consisted of the 
French creoles, the Acadians who had sought 
rest in the warm delta lands of the Mississippi, 


THE INSURRECTION 


11 


Alsatians cajoled to the New World by that most 
clever of Scotchmen, John Law, and the few 
'' Americains ” who had drifted downward on the 
water from Kentucky and entered into trade and 
barter between the colonists and Indians. Coming 
thus within the lists of merchants restricted by 
the hated laws of Spain, laws suited so ill to the 
struggling life of the new country, dissatisfied, 
the seed of revolution had been sown, and they 
had arisen as one man to drive out the repre- 
sentatives of Spanish dominion, to whom their 
beloved France had faithlessly sold them six years 
before. 

They were as children, those warm-blooded, 
impetuous, but not persevering creoles; children 
cast ofif by the mother-land, to whom their loving 
hearts turned pathetically ; children made reckless 
and quick to suspicion by the knowledge that 
their homes and their hearts were the playthings 
of those two kings across the ocean, and that they 
were sold to a new master as completely as were 
the girls and boys from Africa whom they them- 
selves bought from the slavers of the Mexican 
sea. Yet, inconsistent as children or as mobs, it 
was the buyer against whom their wrath had 
arisen, while voices, French, Acadian, creole, 
called under the tricolor the huzzas for fair 
France, blessings on the good Louis (Louis 
XV!), the selfish, unscrupulous figurehead of a 
nation. 


12 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


Such was the picture lit by the sunrise that Oc- 
tober morning of 1768. The first blow against 
foreign dominion in the American colonies was 
being aimed there by the American creoles of 
Louisiana, who, having no flag of their own, 
waved the beloved tricolor and fancied it a symbol 
of freedom. 

And back of the master race thronged the 
blacks, three to one of the colonists, and heard 
their masters demand freedom, and looked at 
each other with memories of Guinea showing in 
their soft, black, velvet-like eyes, and wondered 
if the change of the flags would lighten the chains 
whose weight they felt so often — a weight they 
bent under, they and their children, for a hundred 
years longer. 

“ The town is ours, yet not a life has been lost to 
gain it,” said the youngest of those revolutionary 
leaders, the ardent Bienville, as he smiled at the 
array of arms carried by their men, an equipment 
of old muskets, staves, clubs, knives — anything 
and everything — gathered to emphasize their de- 
mands for the exodus of Charles III of Spain in 
the person of his governor. But Foucault, the 
crafty, who stood near, heard the young enthusi- 
ast's words, and lifted his head in quick remem- 
brance of one unseen. 

De Bayarde, where is he ? ” he asked ; and the 
faces near turned to each other. 

'^Who has seen him since the dawn?” asked 
some one else. ‘'He was then beside me near 


THE INSURRECTION 


13 


Tchoupitoiilas gate, he and the boy. Did he not 
enter with us, he so delighted ? '' 

Foucault’s face grew dark. The delighted ones 
— the enthusiasts — he could not aiford to lose; 
they make excellent tools for the plotter they 
trust. 

'' Find Hector de Bayarde,” he said; and a little 
later some one brought word he was not within 
the town — more, that a young Acadian volun- 
teer had seen him fall near the gate, struck by 
some missile, but that he had arisen, said it was 
nothing, and leaned on the banquette as the others 
marched through. Then all else had been for- 
gotten in the rush of the insurgents. Where the 
missile came from no one could tell, but the mis- 
sile itself was found, a broken bowlder the size of 
a man’s clenched hand, and along its sharp edge 
was the stain of blood scarce dried. The mark of 
a bloody hand was left on the gate, as though one 
had staggered there in passing out ; but that was 
the last trace left. 

And the missing one? 

He lay in the pirogue threading Bayou Petite 
as the sun arose. But he saw none of its glories. 
He did not see even the falling tears of the boy 
who paddled with all his strength through the 
still brown water, nor note the smothered sobs 
that must have reached his ears. 

He lay with closed eyes, the lids quivering at 
every rough motion of the boat. Blood-stained 
were the rough-hewn sides of the tiny vessel. 


14 . 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


blood-stained the yellow ruffle at his neck, the 
brown cloth of his coat, and death seemed to 
have touched his pale forehead. 

‘'Basil,’' he whispered, “my little one, have we 
not yet arrived ? ” 

And the “ little one,” who was perhaps ten years 
of age, shook back the fair curls from his face, 
and controlled his voice to reply: 

“ Not quite, papa, but soon.” 

Each spoke in the tongue of France, the pol- 
ished intonations of the man suggesting the 
usages of a different life than that found in the 
cabins of the colonists. But the boy’s speech was 
not so pure ; he seemed a pretty Acadian peasant 
doing the will of some grand marquis; yet their 
tones held love as they spoke to each other. 

“But it must be soon, very soon, Basil,” he 
murmured, “ else it will be too late. Do not weep. 
You are . . . my brave one; you will ... in 
other years, perhaps, carry a sword for the 
France ... I love . . . and your mother loved. 
You will remember? Our love will watch over 
you, and you must work for France.” 

The halting whispered words were so low — so 
low ! but the boy’s ears were keen. 

“Yes, T will remember,” he said. “Rest now, 
and maybe when we return, the good phy- 
sician — ” 

“ No, it will not be. You, . . . my boy, will be 
my physician ; . . . you will help me to die . . . 
in peace. Ah ! the way is long.” 


THE INSURRECTION 


15 


have arrived/’ And the boy guided the 
pirogue gently to the narrow beach of sand, 
where thickets of willow threw shadows of pale 
leaves in the water, and a little up from the wet 
shore a rock, huge, upright, and solitary, arose 
like a sentinel over the jungles. 

‘AVe have arrived,” he repeated; and his tears 
fell on the hand stained that significant red. 

Papa — tell me, what is it I must do? ” 

‘'Take the shovel, dig deep close to the white 
side of the rock; deep, so no waters will wash it 
away.” 

It — the boy did not know what that meant. In 
his heart he thought his father was made mad by 
that murderous blow in the dusk at the gate of the 
town. He had seen one who was mad in the sum- 
mer just past — a slave brought from over the sea 
— and he had been shot just as a dog had been 
shot that went mad once in the town. Basil knew, 
he had heard, and his fright had been great when 
his father also spoke as though in madness and 
asked for a pirogue, while the blood, unheeded, 
blinded him. Surely he was mad, but were the 
silent bayous not preferable to that crowded town 
where the people shouted, where they might shoot 
him if they knew it, as they had shot the slave 
and the dog? 

Basil thought so, and with his little heart filled 
with fear, and with the foreshadowing of a great 
grief over him, he did as he was told, manfully 
striving to hasten the lifting away of the heavy 


16 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


sand, fashioning a hole there deep as his father 
wished. 

And then he saw what it was to contain, a de- 
canter of glass, a thing he had delighted to play 
with when he was quite little ; but now it was filled 
with paper instead of sweet syrups, and the 
sparkling stopper was tied down with strands of 
hemp black with tar. It did not look pretty as of 
old, but the man touched it lovingly. 

''Wrap it in the tar-painted cloth you found 
with the boat,’' he whispered. "So! Now set it 
there — deep — by the great rock; cover all; then 
I will tell you; but — hasten.” 

The little hands smoothed effectually all signs 
of disturbance of the soil. His father could not 
see; he was simply trusting that all was done as 
he asked; and the boy was faithful. 

" It is done. What more? ” he asked, and Hec- 
tor de Bayarde raised his hand as though blessing 
him. 

" My brave one,” he said, " we will go back now. 
Once more I may see the tricolor waving alone in 
our new land. Go gently. ... I will tell you, 
. . . and we will go back. Do you listen ? ” 

And as the pirogue crept gently back through 
the willows the boy heard without being conscious 
of the significance weighting his father’s words. 

He had heard them so often — so often — those 
words of the two kings across the water; of the 
two flags fluttering as neighbors over the colony, 
French at heart and Spanish in form. There was 


THE INSURRECTION 


17 


another ruler over the sea whom he always got 
sadly confused with those two ; it was the British 
sovereign w^ho had driven the Acadians from 
their fair homes into heartless exile. His mother 
had been of those wanderers. So long as he could 
remember, those tales of the gorgeous oppressors 
and the pitiful oppressed had been told him, as 
the stories of saints and of fairies were told to 
other children ; and it seemed but the same thing 
over again as his father said: 

''It will always be so; never forget, my little 
one. Many nations may assault . . . may con- 
trol the life of our little city of the great river; 
but her heart will never change. It is the French 
heart that will beat through her body while the 
river runs. Some day you may carry a sword for 
France, as I have done. She may want help 
when . . . you are a man. When that time comes 
— you are twenty-five — not before, come then to 
the great rock; take help from the papers there. 
They have power; I was exiled; ... a plot; 
. . . the papers they never got. They have 
power. When I am dead put your hand on mine ; 
. . . promise to forget where . . . they are hid- 
den . . . until you are so old; ... to utter 
no word ; ... no living thing must know ; . . . 
no one.’’ 

"1 will promise now; and, oh, you will live — 
you will live ! ” 

But the man knew it could not be. The warm 
sun was burning mingled fancies into his brain. 


18 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


He seemed striving to keep his thoughts on but 
one path. 

La Belle France, . . . mon brave Basil ! It 
is a good sword. . . . Ah, my wife Suzette! 
through the willows . . 

So he murmured, with long pauses between the 
sentences; so they moved on through the water 
toward the warehouse of the king, toward the 
Place d’Armes, where the people shouted for 
freedom. 

“Back to the flag,’’ he whispered, coaxingly. 
“ I see it no more — Basil ! ” 

And thus it was that the pirogue was seen close 
to the willows by the tower gate as the sun rose 
high, and within it a dying man and the weeping 
boy, who could satisfy their curiosity so little. 

“ He loved the boats and the water, so I took 
him where he wished to go — in and out under the 
willows — and now he speaks no more, and I — 
ah ! be kind with him. He is so good — and he can 
not speak ! ” 

His fears were allayed, and Hector de Bayarde 
was borne unconscious past the groups of san- 
guine patriots whom he had striven to serve. 
Every heart beat less gladly as they learned his 
fate. Ill would it have been for the thrower of 
that murderous stone had his name been known, 
for this, the first life sacrificed for their cause, 
had been one much loved, much trusted. 

As the sunset light touched the flag dear to his 
heart, he spoke for the last time : 


THE INSURRECTION 


19 


Basil — mon brave — La Belle France ! ’’ 

One year later, when the fleet of Spanish ships 
rested before the town and the hundreds of 
Spanish grenadiers landed to enforce, if need be, 
Spanish laws, those insurrectionists of ’68, who 
had called themselves patriots, were treated as 
traitors. 

It is a dark page that holds the record of 
Spain’s vengeance on the colony: the hearts 
pierced by the bullets of her soldiery, the impris- 
onment of patriots in the Castle of Morro, the 
lives banished forever from the lands of Louis- 
iana, the confiscation of all properties belonging 
to the leaders; the power landed with so much 
pomp and ceremony on their shores, was most 
relentless. 

All of those horrors had been mercifully spared 
de Bayarde by his death on their first day of tri- 
umph. In the records of the Spanish custodians 
his name occurs as a most earnest rebel — a traitor 
who escaped justice through death. To outraged 
Spain naught was left but the land owned by him, 
and the slaves who had called him master. These 
were accordingly confiscated. 

But in those records no mention is made of the 
boy who bore his name — a name that was all the 
inheritance allowed him by the new power, the 
power absolute. And even the name of an insur- 
rection leader was made a thing of burden to the 
bearer in those days. 


20 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


CHAPTER I 

THE BRAND OF THE FLEUR-DE-LIS 

Great changes and grand manners of living 
followed in time in the wake of those grenadiers 
of Spain. The languorous life of creole repose 
was cramped in the strait- jacket of pomp and 
form and distracting ceremony. The civil offices 
of the town were of no more consequence than of 
old, yet the titles bestowed on the holders of them 
sounded so grand and fine in the Spanish words 
that they diffused a sort of awe over the colonists, 
for back of those many-syllabled titles was the 
Spanish council, or cabildo, that conferred them, 
and back of the cabildo ranged the vessels with 
the soldiers and the ruthless governor-general, 
and back of them the throne of Spain. 

And La Belle France, and free commerce, self- 
government, and the many utopian ideas and 
shadowy wraiths of hope chased by the Louisi- 
ana creoles? 

Alas ! they were spoken of with tears and sad- 
ness in those days, but under compulsion the 
dreamers of those dreams wrote their names in 
the great book of the cabildo and subscribed 
themselves subjects of Spain, and were quite as 
well off after it as before, had their prejudice 
allowed them to believe it. 

But enough of the old customs remained, 


THE BRAND OF THE FLEUR-DE-LIS 21 


though rechristened, gradually to win them to 
content. Their religion was left them; in the 
ruling of their slaves little was changed; each 
owner was still invested with full powers of po- 
lice over his black toilers, and for lack of a newer 
mark the fleur-de-lis, the flower of France, was 
still branded as of old on the body of refractory 
slaves. 

Ah, yes, the new rule had its good points, after 
all. To be sure the heart of the life there was 
French; so at length the creole lips learned to 
smile again, to murmur condolences to each other 
with languorous acceptance of their lot, and as 
their possessions and privileges grew with each 
blooming of the myrtles, they looked with more 
kindly eyes on the exiles from Spain. In time 
their sons and daughters helped to close the 
breach with lovers' promises, and society grew 
into a tranquil institution, with more of leisure 
for the little refinements of their old lives in the 
countries of courts. 

And the hunters and traders from the north 
countries and the lands of the Illinois beheld with 
wonder the changes each journey witnessed in 
the palisaded town on Orleans Island. Ships full 
of stores glided into her harbors, and bore away 
in exchange the products semi-tropical of the soil 
and wealth of skins from the creatures of the 
forests. Not alone Spanish ships, for after a sea- 
son of ostracism, the ever watchful British crept 


' 22 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


again into the toleration of the people and moored 
their trading vessels along the shores. 

One by one the Spanish merchants, bidding for 
fortune, varied the architectural features of the 
town by building in the midst of their gardens 
the picturesque dwellings of old Spain. They 
were all but one story high, those quaint man- 
sions, with their inner courts where oleanders 
and orange-bloom shaded the restful galleries 
from the tropic suns. 

There were Moorish arches under which one 
walked into those gardens circled by the dwell- 
ings, and the latticed windows, long and narrow, 
were banded by metals from across the ocean, 
while within the shadowy living-rooms were 
spread great skins from the bear and the tiger, 
and bright weavings of rugs from the Indian 
hands of the East. Soft carpets of feathers were 
formed by slave fingers from the smooth breast 
of the wild duck, and couches of mahogany were 
draped in silk and linens; tables of finest woods 
were inlaid with the pearl shell of the shores, 
while vessels of precious metals filled with Span- 
ish wines were borne to the white rulers by half- 
naked slaves. Surely, of all colonies on our coasts, 
none bore with it such atmosphere of beauty and 
gracious oriental fancy as circled the life there 
shut in from the gaze of the world by the vast 
wilderness draped with the curtains of gray moss. 

And so it was that fabulous tales of luxury 
were told of the Louisianians in many a log cabin 


THE BRAND OF THE FLEUR-DE-LIS 23 


of the East, where the hunters wandered — tales 
that raised many conjectures among the simpler 
pioneers who tilled the earth with plows of wood 
and ate their dinner of corn and beans from bowls 
made of gourds and spoons cut from white ash. 

Of a certainty there must be kings dwelling at 
the gate of the great river, they decided — only 
kings drank from jeweled cups and dressed a 
favorite slave in cloth of silk and silver arm- 
bands. In the Book of Books such things were 
told of, and the God-fearing knew they were the 
temptations of Satan, and warned those wide- 
ranging traders to beware of his nets that were 
surely held in those barbaric hands at that port 
of the South. 

But in the more ardent adventurous minds 
those abominations had an aspect most enticing, 
and earnestly did they ply the chance traveler 
with questions of the grandeur down there ; of the 
old governor who had gone away after many 
years; of the new governor who had taken his 
place; of the jewels, many as the sands, rare 
gems from the rich mines of Mexico. 

And the wearers of those jewels; fair they 
must be, of course, said report, though in truth 
few of the traders from the inland could testify to 
that, for caste was a high barrier in those days, 
and the wives and maids of the rulers were not to 
be gazed at as freely as were the shy, half-naked 
sauvage girls who drove their canoes through the 
lagoons in search of fish. 


24 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


But had any of the curious ones been allowed 
the privileges of the gray parrot that swung so 
demurely in the garden of Mons. Gaston le Noy- 
ens, that one would have found proof positive of 
the beauty shut in by the high hedges of green. 

For two girls talked under the parrot's perch, 
and were screened from house and garden by the 
latticed, vine-covered bower; two as widely dif- 
erent as light and darkness, yet each surely beau- 
tiful. They were very close together; their speech 
was disjointed and broken at times, as by smoth- 
ered sobs. The jeweled, lily-like hand of one rest- 
ed on the silver-banded, bronze arm of the other, 
who crouched at her feet. One was of the ruling 
race and color, the other a stray from Africa ; one 
was mistress, the other slave. 

And on the slave’s shoulder, where the snowy 
chemise was pushed back, was the mark of a cruel 
deed, the cause of those despairing murmurs ; for 
crisp and gray on the brown skin was branded the 
sigh of a rebellious slave — the deep-burnt fleur- 
de-lis. 

‘'But you, Zizi, are not of the insurrection 
blacks,” pleaded the soft French tones of the mis- 
tress; "then why — ?” 

She stopped speaking and waited for the girl at 
her feet to answer the muttered question. But the 
eyes, red from weeping, looked shrinkingly into 
the tender blue eyes above her. 

" No ; I never go where other black people go — 
to whisper in crowds. No; some one lied, maybe; 


THE BRAND OF THE FLEUR-DE-LIS 25 


some one jealous” — and she moaned a little, re- 
peating the words — “some one jealous, that I 
never sent to the rice plantation ; that’s why, may- 
be. And now — oh!” 

“But, Zizi— ” 

The slave-girl raised her head and hand; she 
had oddly commanding gestures for her race. 

“No; please, ma’m’selle — good Ma’m’selle Fe- 
lice, give me a new name. Fm new nigger now; 
that’s all. Zizi carried no shame burnt with iron 
on the shoulder; Zizi sang songs all day; Zizi 
was happy; Zizi now dead — dead and gone to 
hell — white master’s hell. Oam-nie ! ” 

“ Zizi ! ” scolded Mademoiselle Felice, half 
frightened at the wildness of speech, “never more 
say such words — you hear ? I will not love you, 
I can not, if you grow wicked. What if the regi- 
dors (rulers) or alcaldes (judges) should hear 
words like that ? Could I keep you from the rice 
fields then? No; not even your master could do 
that.” 

“ Master not care I ” burst out the slave. “ Mas- 
ter hope I drop dead, I know. I say few little 
words, that’s all, and he look — ooh ! how his eyes 
look at me ! then he go way. By-in-by cabildo men 
come, put chains — so! pull me to calabozo — send 
me back with this ! ” 

Her agitation was so great that her speech — 
French, and very imperfect — was disjointed. 
Mademoiselle Felice watched the expressive face 
for the meaning instead of trusting to the words 


26 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


with their decided coloring of the African coast — 
so many words of French, or of English, are im- 
possible to the native of West Africa; and the girl, 
though wearing a silken sash above her buff linen 
skirt, and though bands of white metal decked 
her shapely arms, was yet without doubt a native 
of the black lands. 

'‘No; your master has been a good master to 
you,” contradicted Mademoiselle Felice. " Did he 
ever make Zizi work on the plantation ? ever make 
her wear ' nigger cloth,' like the others ? ever make 
her do work but wait on me ? ever make her sleep 
but at my door? No, no, child; he never wanted 
you to die. Some one spoke falsely of you, may- 
be — yes, surely; but your Master Gaston loves 
you well, Zizi.” 

A queer little sound, like a scornful moan, came 
from the child, who was perhaps nineteen, and 
older by a couple of years than Mademoiselle Fe- 
lice. "Bouf! love — white man's love — oam- 
me ! ” and she rocked her body in a sort of derisive 
misery. " Zizi know — I know — white man's love ! 
Look on my shoulder! White man's love made 
that.” 

Mademoiselle Felice covered her eyes with her 
hands. "Oh, you poor unfortunate! My good 
Zizi, I loved the very name of France! but now I 
cannot, when I see its emblem burnt in your flesh ; 
no, never again ! The chains and whips of Spain 
can be no more cruel. But I love you, Zizi. I will 
buy you if Uncle Gaston can be coaxed, and you 







I;:.. 


'ttu- - ---i 










'^-. 




'i^t^ JKUiJL' Si. - 'Ss'^ 


White man's love made that 





't * 



-■» ^ 



V4 


i 









. t 





7 


I 


’•I 




THE BRAND OF THE FLEUR-DE-LIS 27 


will never see the branding-iron again. Ah, how 
it must burn you ! ” 

Zizi's swaying body ceased, and she looked up 
with a strange expression on her face. 

Fm all black, and you, Ma’m’selle Felice, are 
white, like the magnolia blossoms, but maybe we 
can feel the same; and if Master Basil, when he 
slips under the trees to speak with you, would 
strike you with a whip instead of kiss your hands, 
would the pain be more where the whip fell than 
the ache in the heart ? 

Zizi, how dare you ! 

‘'Ah, ma'm’selle, sweet ma’m’selle, be not 
angered; for see’’ — and she laid her clinched 
hand on her half-bared bosom — “the hurt is so 
bad here that I forget I am only the slave — I 
forget ! ” 

“Yes, you forget,” agreed ma’m’selle, sadly; 
“that is why the cabildo men made you suffer, 
that is why I must speak unkindly. Why do you 
forget ? The others do not.” 

“ Heh! the others” — and Zizi threw back her 
head as a young mare of the desert might when 
touched first by the whip — “the others know 
why! They were slaves always, the many who 
come in the white master’s ship ; two, three, work 
now in your rice lands that I did buy, that I did 
sell on my own shore. The others — were the 
others born, as I was born, of the king’s wife? 
Were the others told by the old men of the traps 
in the king’s laws, and the way to rule and make 


28 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


a nation strong? Were the others carried on 
woven mats and shaded from the sky by the broad- 
est leaves? . The others! I, the Zizi of Master 
Gaston, am not as the others/’ 

Surely these were the words of the insurrec- 
tion blacks who were dreaded; troubled Made- 
moiselle Felice shook her head sadly. The brand 
of the fleur-de-lis was not so difficult to explain 
now. 

“ Zizi, if they hear you speak like that they will 
take you away to the plantations, and the chains 
and the brands, and the whips will kill you, may- 
be. Is it not better to be still, and to live where I 
live? Yes, I think so. The rulers will not say 
you are different; they will say the gold bought 
you as the rest, and that your master may not 
keep you in the town.” 

‘‘ Buy me — me ? — never believe ! They may kill 
me, but never believe.” And the strange crea- 
ture clasped her hands pleadingly. ‘'Ah, good 
Mademoiselle Felice, white ladies never hear how 
the white masters trap slaves with kind eyes and 
softest words. So Zizi was bought ; so she slipped 
her boat in the night to follow where the big king- 
dom was, to sit by the kind master and be woman 
king in a land so big her own could be swallowed 
by it. Such thoughts had Zizi in her heart. Oam- 
me! oam-me!” 

“Zizi, you speak like the fairy stories of the 
foreign prince and the charmed princess,” and 
Mademoiselle Felice tried to laugh lightly, but 


THE BRAND OF THE FLEUR-DE-LIS 29 


was embarrassed by the outspoken fantastic de- 
sires of the favored slave. They were so droll, 
these black people! But Felice had never seen 
any of them droll after this fashion of Zizi’s. She 
was very certain her Uncle Gaston would find 
grave cause for reproof in the fact that she 
listened to and showed sympathy with a slave who 
was under the ban of that flower of France. Yet 
Mademoiselle Felice Henriette St. Malo had all 
a woman’s interest in puzzling things, and surely 
these aspirations of Zizi were the most unheard- 
of, ridiculous things; from whence had they 
come? 

‘‘Well, continue, Zizi; finish the story.” 

“This has finished the story,” and the girl 
pointed to the brand and arose to her feet. One 
could see then the wondrous symmetry of the 
statuesque figure. Not the limbs of the rice- 
worker those. Mademoiselle Felice, in her dainty 
blue and white gown, looked like a pure-lipped lily 
beside the tawny oriental beauty of the slave. And 
the bronze feet, with their jingling anklets, looked 
strangely slim for the feet of an African. But are 
there not legends of the Moors ranging far down 
that western coast? Might not those feet be a 
record of their raids ? 

Not that Zizi’s mistress speculated on these 
questions. Zizi was handsomer than all the other 
slaves; that was why she was kept like a bright 
picture in the house. It is pleasant to be waited 
upon by beauty; and the spirit of voluptuous 


30 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


France was abroad through the land in the eight- 
eenth century. 

But tell me, Zizi — ’’ 

“Mistress’’ — and the girl’s voice had lost its 
passionate coloring, the tones were low and even 

— “Mistress Felice, niggers dream wide-awake 
sometimes — that’s all. Zizi dream like that. Zizi 
say fool things, for reason her fine little mis- 
tress is so kind. She be good now; say fool 
things not any more — only find new name. 
Please, Ma’m’selle Felice, I hear you some days 
sing little song like bird; that song it say so, 
^Vendaient! vendaient!' Now what that mean, 
mistress?” 

Ma’m’selle Felice smiled and blushed all over 
her witchy, softly curved face. 

“ Oh, that’s a love-ballad, in which the cavalier 
laments that Monsieur Cupid has betrayed him for 
a glance from a lady, and sold him for one whis- 
per through a lattice.” 

“ And vendaient, mistress ? ” 

“That is but — betrayed — sold — you know; 
you learn the words so swiftly.” 

The slave-girl nodded. “ Zizi thought like that 

— venda — vendaient — that pretty, fine name. 
Mistress, give me that name. Zizi ugly in my 
ears now — Venda sound good — the song sound 
good. Venda better, anyway. Jocko, who catches 
fish, has a monkey devil he call Zizi; so please, 
mistress, give me a name to myself.” 

“Well, if it please you, and if you are good,” 


THE BRAND OF THE FLEUR-DE-LIS 31 


consented Mademoiselle Felice, and wondered at 
the childish petulance about sharing a name with 
a pet animal — she who had been startling in her 
pain and her passion over weightier matters not 
an hour ago; and now she was smiling her 
thanks, though signs of tears were yet on her 
cheeks. 

*‘Um! ril be good now — Venda will — the 
name is good — Venda!” Then she stooped and 
kissed the white wrist before her. ‘‘Til be good 
to you, little mistress ; Fd die for you,” she mut- 
tered, and turned away. Not another word of 
that burning brand. Had the gift of the new 
name driven away the pain ? 

''It is as the planters say — they are only chil- 
dren, after all, Zizi too,” thought her mistress. 

The home of Mademoiselle Felice was by no 
means of her own choosing, else it would not 
have been in that suburban corner of the town, 
where the streets were yet to be, and where the 
thick green of the leaves shut one off as effectu- 
ally from sight of more social New Orleans as if 
the dwelling-house had been without the ban- 
quette among the indigo fields where the slaves 
worked. 

But Gaston le Noyens, like many another vo- 
luptuary, enjoyed all the more the excesses of his 
barrack associates and the carousals of the warm 
nights because he went to them from the cloister- 
like shadows where the remnant of his family 


3 


32 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


exhaled a certain atmosphere of innocence about 
the pomegranate-walled retreat. 

A man universally liked for his handsome face, 
his gracious smile, and the fascination which won 
for him friendship of men and women, though 
few could have told of any good deeds done by 
him. 

Indeed, it had been whispered that it was the 
troublesome fascination of his manner which ex- 
iled him from the light of the king’s countenance 
twelve years before. The king who would be 
paramount in chosen feminine hearts is wise when 
he banishes courtiers who look voiceless adora- 
tion. A suppliant at beauty’s feet is much more 
dangerous as a rival than one who stoops to con- 
fer favors, and Louis XV of France was doubt- 
less aware of the fact. 

But exile seemed to trouble Monsieur le 
Noyens but little. He had plunged carelessly, 
recklessly into different schemes and enterprises 
of the New World. He had crossed the dread 
lands into Mexico, and came back with strange 
jewels; he had spent a year about the northern 
settlement of Vincennes, and floated down the 
great river with costly stores of furs; he had 
crossed the Mexican sea many times to the slave 
markets of Barbadoes, and had ranged once — 
that once of which Zizi moaned — the west coast 
of Africa, and on his return had found his wid- 
owed sister, lately arrived, dying, of either dis- 
ease or homesickness, and a blue-eyed demoiselle 


THE BRAND OF THE FLEUR-DE-LIS 33 


who called him mon oncle, and whose presence 
suggested the forming of a home against the day 
when he should grow too old to roam. 

Such was the man, but a type of many in the 
adventurous life of that new colony owned by the 
Spanish king. And if he failed in many ways as 
a guardian, or in his new role of a domestic bach- 
elor, well, it was only a jest to laugh at, and, 
after all, he thought he did well, since no lady, 
of whatever rank, was draped as finely as his pro- 
tege, and in all the colony none was more deli- 
cately cared for. In all the colony there lived no 
demoiselle so high of birth, so altogether desir- 
able, and at the same time unwedded; but all the 
flattering ceremonies of their caste did not pre- 
vent the languid days from dragging wearily to 
her. Youth loves gay youth, and not the con- 
ventionalities of a court ; and the honeyed phrases 
addressed to her by her uncle's friends had never 
yet done aught but amuse her or make her weary 
of their sameness. 

In fact, to the wonder of all, it was generally 
supposed Mademoiselle Felice meant to take the 
veil of conventual life instead of a husband, if one 
could judge by her indifference to the latter, and 
her close affection for the nuns, in whose society 
she passed much of her time ; and in the charity 
hospital down there by the grasping, treacherous 
river the girl was not a stranger. 

But never a cavalier strode by the side of 
Mademoiselle Felice. Zizi was there when she 


34 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


went abroad in the streets, and Ponto, a stalwart 
black of the Congo; sometimes an Ursuline nun, 
whose eyes were ever on the ground, but never a 
social friend, except it be Father Dagobert, of be- 
loved memory and easy penances. 

But ghostly associations stole never a charm of 
life and youth from the flower face of Felice, and 
dimmed never the bloom of the velvet mouth 
adorable — the mouth so sweetly tremulous, as 
from the consciousness of kisses. 

Did a thought like that ever cross the brain of 
Monsieur le Noyens? If so, he had but to run 
over the list of eligibles — among them his good 
comrade, Don Diego Zanalta — on whom she had 
smiled a ''no,’' yet retained their devotion. And 
outside those cavaliers and ecclesiastics the child 
had no knowledge of man or boy in all the colony, 
unless, indeed, it be a certain half-caste youth 
named Basil, who had the trick of picking music 
from a mandolin and from whom Felice had 
begged to learn after hearing the notes on the 
river one night. 

But Monsieur le Noyens counted the music- 
master not at all among the receivers of his pro- 
tege’s smiles. A woman of the Le Noyens to 
stoop to one beneath her! Her guardian would 
as soon have thought black Ponto among her 
lucky suitors. And she had not even seemed to 
regret those lessons of harmony when they ceased 
so suddenly months ago, and did not even know 


THE BRAND OF THE FLEUR-DE-LIS 35 


the fellow's audacity in asking Monsieur Gaston 
for her hand, if in five years he could present 
himself with wealth and name acceptable in the 
eyes of her family. 

Monsieur Gaston was touched with merriment 
whenever he remembered that scene. It was, no 
doubt, the outgrowth of the free air in this new 
land, that swept over barriers of caste and raised 
hopes of boatman or merchant to the level of the 
ruling blood. But it was ridiculous, entirely. Per- 
haps it had been amusement tempering his anger 
that day; anyway, he had dismissed the Pan of 
the river reeds with no greater hurt than a few 
sardonic speeches and the suggestion that he at 
once betake himself from the colony and return 
to the demi-sauvages of the Illinois, where there 
were no objectionable lines of caste drawn, and 
where he might aspire to the daughter of some 
chieftain and meet a surer welcome. 

Monsieur Gaston never could remember aright 
just the words of the lad's reply; but he realized 
that the player of the mandolin, who was also a 
voyageur or boatman of the great river, could 
express much rage without words, and was sadly 
deficient in the suave manners of courtiers. 

Yet his audacity had soared as high as the 
hopes of the highest-born cavalier on the new 
lands! Well it was that Felice never knew; her 
kind heart made her gentle alike to courtier, com- 
moner, or slave, and the guardian of Felice knew 


36 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


that the presumption of the ranger needed harsh- 
er medicines than her sweet-voiced reproof. 


CHAPTER II 

VENDA 

And Mademoiselle Felice? Did Monsieur 
Gaston never for a moment guess that she might 
possess something of his own determination — 
even love of adventure — under the tender mask 
of her fair face ? And to what hearts do romances 
appeal most alluringly? Surely those shut in by 
the grays and the whites of the cloister’s life. 
And the blood of youth, so quick to sympathy, 
reads many a volume from tender answering 
eyes, and heeds but little the conventional words 
of aged guides. Wisdom is good, but wayward 
folly has a sweetness of its own; its guidance is 
such an alluring thing. 

The magnolia and the willow had drooped over 
many of the sauvage lovers of that semi-tropic 
land, and they formed many a natural bower for 
a wooing of courtlier phrases when the athletic 
young voyageiir left the paddle to his comrades 
and touched the mandolin strings for the pleas- 
ure of mademoiselle. 

And the finale? That day of Zizi’s disgrace, 
Zizi’s mistress again sat in the arbor of the far 


VENDA 


37 


gate, but instead of the sobbing slave-girl there 
was the form of a stalwart monk at her feet, and 
instead of priestly admonitions on his lips there 
were warm broken sentences, with which caresses 
mingled, and on the whiteness of her hands many 
kisses were pressed. 

And Felice was telling him the horror of Zizi’s 
punishment. 

''And if we are to believe, it was by my uncle's 
commands; then think how great would be his 
anger if he knew all! Oh, Basil — " 

But he stopped her with a smile. 

" No one knows all, my little madame, not even 
Father Dagobert, much as he loves a love; and 
but to-day has Father Luis taken the way into the 
wilderness beyond Vincennes. Our sweetest 
secret is ours until we choose to speak." 

"But secrets are so terrible! I grow weak 
when I think of his anger. Poor Zizi ! " 

" Dear heart, think of the boat on which we will 
some day sail far from these shores, think not so 
long on the fate of a slave, who laughs, perhaps, 
while you sigh for her. Be not so tender of heart, 
little one." 

"Ah, and had I been hard of heart a certain 
voyageur we know of would now be with Father 
Luis in the forests instead of kissing a lady's 
fingers. Dare you chide me, mon brave Basil ? " 

''Mon brave Basil," he repeated, tenderly; "you 
speak for my father when you say the sweet 
words; they are the last of my remembrance of 


38 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


him. But chide you? I bless and thank you. 
You make me a prince when you turn from your 
world of courtiers and take my hand. But a 
brave man borrows no cloak of a priest when he 
goes wooing/' and his face, fair with the light of 
youth, and softened by curls of brown, grew for 
a moment dark and discontented. “Had I but 
your consent I should claim you before all, and 
bear you away from their walls of caste, and 
their empty pride; only your will holds me back." 

“And your promise — your promise to be kept 
one year — no more," she said, coaxingly. “ Then 
all may know, but not yet; they would shut me 
away from you, perhaps, and then — then I should 
die, oh, love, believe it." 

That his belief was willing and tender none 
could doubt who heard the caressing, reassuring 
words. The kisses of his lips touched her, and 
she flushed as a rose under his eager eyes. 

“A summer ago you would not have been so 
bold," she whispered ; and he laughed. 

“A summer ago, and all my summers agone, I 
dreamed dreams of paradise as I sped my boat 
through the bayous, and the saints — you among 
them — have been too good to me, Felice, for the 
dreams have come true, and paradise has stooped 
to me while I am yet alive." 

But even in the midst of the joyous boast she 
raised her hand. “To-day everything makes me 
afraid," she whispered. “I do not know why, 
perhaps because of Zizi’s grief, but every foot- 


VENDA 


39 


step sounds like a bell in the night when the 
blacks arise; and now — but now did you not hear 
some one speak?'’ 

He listened and shook his head. '' It is but the 
laughter of guests there at the house. But you 
are right, it is not wise to linger at this hour 
— others than we may fancy this shadowed cor- 
ner ; and so until tomorrow — " 

His arm was about her as they paced to the 
door of the arbor and halted for a moment of 
farewell; but ere it was spoken a scuffle of feet 
was heard without, and the girl Zizi was flung 
from the path by an angry hand, and a face ap- 
peared before them at which Felice screamed 
faintly and strove to draw from the detaining 
hand of the tall young priest. 

Yet the face was in no sense a fearful one. Its 
lines were rather handsome, fair, cynical lines, 
and all touched just then by a smile. 

''How is this?" he inquired, as if a pleasant 
picture had been arranged for his benefit alone. 
"A scene ardent as the loves of Abelard and that 
other religious harlot of old France! Do you, 
then, gracious father, take to your arms a daugh- 
ter of Eve for love of heaven ? " 

In an instant the voyageur heart broke through 
the barrier of priestly garb; swiftly he struck, and 
the enraged, mocking face of Monsieur Gaston 
was leveled to the green grasses ; blood was struck 
from the mouth that had smiled so insultingly, and 
at sight of it Felice screamed. 


40 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


''He is dead/’ she cried, wildly. "Oh, good 
God! Basil, you have taken the life of my uncle.” 

"And stolen the heart of the niece,” added an- 
other voice, and Felice saw the form of Don 
Diego Zanalta standing but a few feet away. He 
had evidently accompanied Monsieur Gaston and 
been an unseen witness of all that passed. Zizi 
arose to her feet and cast a look of hate toward 
him as she caught her mistress, who drooped 
suddenly on the arm of the priest, pale as a blos- 
som beat down in a tempest. 

"Take her, Zizi,” said the man, who seemed a 
priest to Zanalta — "take her from the speech of 
these men, whose words are sacrilege to purity ! ” 

He laid the loved form in the slave-girl’s arms. 
With the watchful eyes of that gay cavalier on 
him, he refrained from kissing even her hand, 
but he looked adoringly on the pale face, and 
raised his hands in gesture of blessing above her 
head, murmuring something unheard by the 
others. 

He watched so long as a glimpse of her could 
be seen through the shrubbery; such a heavy 
weight seemed to fall on his heart when his eyes 
could rest on her no longer. So few the moments 
since paradise had been his, and now — 

He straightened himself, remembering that 
other man, and the owner of the land who lay at 
his feet. 

"Your friend is not dead,” he said, as Mon- 
sieur Gaston stirred and attempted to rise. Zanal- 


VENDA 


41 


ta assisted him, but his eyes rested curiously on 
the priest-clad form and earnest face. 

“Who are you?^' he demanded, and Basil de 
Bayarde turned away. 

“ Monsieur le Noyens can tell you if he chooses, 
and for my acts he will always find me ready to 
answer.’’ 

He walked away, but not until he was seen by 
two other gentlemen who came hurriedly from 
the mansion-house, where the arrival of Zizi had 
disturbed the smoking of gay gallants who liked 
well the fragrant cigars of Le Noyens. Full of 
wonder, they gazed at the retreating monkish 
form and then at the pale, slightly scarred face of 
their host. 

“It is but trifling, gentlemen,” he reassured 
them ; “ a vagabond employe, whom I had forbid- 
den the grounds, crept back in disguise, for the 
purpose of theft, no doubt, and gave a great 
fright to mademoiselle, my niece. We had an 
altercation, but it is over, and since he is gone we 
will do well to forget him. I will set a watch for 
him in future, for these rangers of the rivers 
are daring thieves.” 

His guests agreed, though quietly curious as 
to why the thief was allowed to walk away unar- 
rested. 

But Zanalta was not content to ignore his curi- 
osity as to the man whom Mademoiselle Felice 
had called “ Basil” in so intimate a tone. Basil? 
Basil? In all their circle of the colony he knew 


42 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


none of that name to whom she would turn. But 
one thing he did know — this Basil was the man 
who had lured her from his arms. This cavalier 
of the gown should be his game, he promised 
himself ; for all in an instant he realized that his 
rival was not the holy church, not the cloister of 
a nun, but this stalwart unknown. 

‘'Tell me but one thing, Gaston,'’ he asked, 
pressing his friend's arm with affectionate sym- 
pathy; “tell the others as little as you like, but 
remember you and I are more than companions 
of a season. Remember you have given me Fe- 
lice, if I can win her ; now give me also the name 
of the man who is my rival." 

Le Noyens halted where a rustic seat was set 
in the shade of oleander branches. 

“Ask our friends to excuse my absence for a 
little while," he asked, “ and then come back here. 
If I speak to you it is best to have no walls 
about." 

The other gentlemen had already halted at the 
portal, waiting for the master, but in a few 
smooth phrases Zanalta excused their host and 
placed the house at their disposal. On his return 
he found Gaston no longer reclining; he was 
erect, and walking backward and forward mood- 
ily. He turned at the step of his friend. 

“That we agreed Felice should marry you, if 
any man, is one of the bitter things I would like 
to forget just now," he acknowledged. “I feel 
that her guardian-angel will do well to keep her 


VENDA 


43 


away from me for the present, or I might be 
tempted to kill her/’ 

Gaston!” 

“You do not know what she has become!” 
burst out the other ; “ she has disgraced her fam- 
ily — she, the first woman of her name to do so. 
You would not now care to remember that you 
ever desired her. The women of Zanalta have 
been noble. You would not want to be first to 
add to the house a wife who has stooped to the 
canaille as Felice has stooped. Ah, I tell you — 
why not? You would learn it some day. By the 
cross of God, she’ll pay dearly for her gay meet- 
ings; not another day shall she live without the 
walls of the nuns she professed such a liking for. 
That I, Gaston le Noyens, should have been blind- 
ed so long by this praying dame whose eyes dare 
not rise to meet a man’s ! Oh, fool — fool ! ” 

Diego Zanalta only watched his friend, waiting 
for the wordy rage to die away. 

“ I ask but the name of the man,” he said again, 
quietly; “you have not told me.” 

“Then I shall.” And Gaston’s smile was one 
of self pity. “Why spare ourselves any of the 
humiliation she has bought so dearly? Months 
ago I told you of a boor — a voyageur — floating 
down from the villages of the saiivages; he could 
pick airs from the mandolin. Well, it seems 
Mademoiselle Felice found her mate in that ig- 
norant, low-bred oarsman, for to-day I surprised 
them with clasped arms, his kisses on her lips. 


44 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


This meeting was not their first, be sure of that, 
Diego. Could I give to my friend a wife who 
was the leavings of such cattle ? ” 

'' I desire mademoiselle, and hold you to your 
promise,’’ Zanalta answered; “but the fellow’s 
name ? ” 

“ Basil de Bayarde.” 

“ De Bayarde ! that is not the name of a plebe- 
ian.” 

“ Bouf ! A name is as easy to borrow or steal 
as the gown of a priest.” 

“ De Bayarde — the name has a sound familiar, 
though I know none who answers to it. De Bay- 
arde — that name must be for the present written 
on the clearest page of my memory. De Bay- 
arde?” 

“Yet you seem to care little enough,” remarked 
his friend, looking at him sharply; “you whom I 
have seen rage because a little negresse divided 
her favors and gave you but half ; you who have 
left a man dead on the sands of Spain because of 
a woman whose vows were as false as the jewels 
she wore, and as cheaply bought. Do I know you 
even yet, Diego?” 

“Who else if not you? Bend not your eyes on 
me in such disturbed wonder because I am for- 
getting the season of the passion flowers for the 
sake of one fair lily I would have grow in my 
garden.” 

“Fair, perhaps; foul by the proof.” 

“ Heed your words ! ” retorted Zanalta. “ I have 


VENDA 


45 


adored her through a century of waiting, and 
your croakings shall not mar the visions of my 
paradise/’ 

To which his excellency De Bayarde will raise 
a locked gate of iron,” sneered his friend, whose 
brooding rage yet pictured itself in glance and 
tone. But Zanalta tapped with white, strong 
fingers his jeweled snuff-box and gazed vindic- 
tively toward the gate where the priest’s gown 
had disappeared. 

‘'Have no fear that Basil de Bayarde will be 
forgotten. Saint Satan will aid me in that, for 
you know how bitterly he hates a monk’s hood.” 

“ Go within, Diego ; you are light as the bubbles 
on new wine. You, better than myself, can act 
the host to-night. Look to our friends. I must 
think.” 

But he could not even think in repose; rage 
made him restless, and again his feet were turned 
toward the far gate where he had surprised the 
lovers. Forward and back he walked with bent 
head, not seeing the lithe form of the slave-girl 
who entered the gate from without, panting as 
one who has run far; yet her absence had been 
but short, and she slipped behind the myrtles, 
stealthily, that he might not think she had been 
abroad in the roads of Orleans; it would be so 
easy for him to fancy the truth — that she had 
followed the lover with word from the mistress. 

Quite near her, as she stood in hiding, there 
gleamed something bright, as of silver, among 


46 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


the green of the grasses. Bending forward she 
saw more clearly. It was a slim, curved blade, 
with a handle of buckhorn; a knife such as the 
white hunters and the men of the river carry in 
their belts. It had, no doubt, fallen from under 
the priestly gown in the altercation so lately 
passed, and quick-witted Zizi knew that, if found, 
it would be an added cause of offense against the 
voyageur. 

“ When the morning comes again they will be 
far in the wild woods,’’ she told herself. But 
Master Gaston walks like that for madness, and 
the night is long enough for him — for devil Za- 
nalta — to do bad deeds in, and the knife must not 
be found by him.” 

But as she reached for it and stepped back 
again the anklets of silver she wore clinked one 
against the other, and at the sound her master 
turned quickly. 

She was standing erect, there in the green, 
watching him with somber eyes, and gave him 
the impression of having stood there a long time 
watching him. 

” Sulking still, you brown devil?” he growled, 
as if glad to find some object to vent his wrath 
upon. ''Well, you’ll have cause; doubt it not. 
When the sun comes up to-morrow, if it finds you 
absent from the indigo fields, fifty lashes will be 
added to that fine mark on your shoulder.” 

Her face grew ashen at his words. The indigo 
fields ! There among the black cattle who called 


VENDA 


47 


her ''the proud’’ and "the favorite.” No, death 
were better; she held more closely that knife. 

" Master, have I not been hurt enough? I will 
be good once more, if only you will be a little kind 
to Zizi — a little kind, as you were in my own land. 
See, I tremble; I am afraid, as little children; 
listen to me; be kind.” 

She approached him, pleadingly, her eyes moist 
with tears of entreaty, but his face never softened. 

" Be kind to a slave who dictates terms to me ? 
You have been mad for many months. The whip 
of the overseer will prove a most excellent cure 
for that malady.” 

Mad? Yes, she must of a certainty have been 
that, for the supremacy of the master was forgot- 
ten by her, and she laughed, though her lips 
seemed stiff. 

"The whip of the driver! Was the Zizi you 
knew among the palms ever touched by the whip ? 
Did the slaves who stooped before her ever feel 
the weight of hot irons? You are wise and 
strong, O my master ; but slave Zizi that you did 
steal is stronger now. Before a whip touches her 
she will be free from your land.” 

"Hah! You voudou devil, do you mean you 
will raise the blacks? By the saints, I’ll have 
your bones broken for that threat. To the quar- 
ters!” 

"No!” 

She seemed to him like a pythoness with the 
head and shoulders of a woman, and her form 


48 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


grew more majestic as if swelling with some 
dread import not to be worded, and her eyes had 
yellow lights in them and were terrible. 

''Listen!’’ she said, and the words were a half 
whisper in her earnestness. " I beg to you for the 
last time. If I die by the whips, you will die too, 
my master, die in the dark when no one sees. It is 
your life I beg for; you were ever dearest to 
Zizi. See ! I plead, I kneel by your feet. I ask 
that you take again to your heart the thought of 
our days on my own lands ; the days were sweet ; 
think of them! Touch my hand once more — 
once ! ” 

Her other hand was hidden under the loose 
draperies of her bosom ; and the point of the knife 
was touching the spot over her heart. 

But he never dreamed that death was the free- 
dom she meant. 

"You fool!” he sneered, and struck her with 
his foot. " Cattle of the jungles, begone ! ” 

It was his last word, except " Holy God ! ” as he 
fell, and the knife meant for her own heart was 
sunk deep into his. 

He never moved, and a great sickness swept 
over her as she looked at him. The sneer was 
gone from his lips. He lay as if asleep — asleep 
as he had slept with his head in her lap through 
the hours of one sweet moon. 

But no knife-hilt rose above his heart then; 
and with a moan she turned blindly from the 
path, not heeding her direction. But the spirits 


VENDA 


49 


of her Afric land must have led her from dis- 
covery, for just then the man in the monk’s gown 
entered stealthily the outer gate. He was com- 
ing in answer to the message she had left with 
him so lately, but she sank down under the broad 
leaves of a strange plant there. Earth and sky 
seemed meeting above her; she did not see him. 

But other eyes did — the eyes of Zanalta. Im- 
patient of Gaston’s absence, he had left the gay 
party in the house and was moving along the 
path, when he heard those angry, hurried voices, 
and an instant later saw his friend stretched 
across the path. 

tie was about to rush forward, when he saw 
the lover of Felice coming straight in his direc- 
tion. He watched with a smile in his eyes that 
presumptuous ranger of the wilds walking to 
his fate. 

Assuredly Saint Satan was good to him, and to 
perfect his wishes he heard close behind him gay 
cavaliers, who were calling to him merrily that 
the wine was good and his desertion was not to 
be pardoned. 

De Bayarde heard them too, and turned to re- 
treat, when his eyes fell on the dead form there 
— dead on the spot where they had quarreled so 
short a time before — dead, with a knife sticking 
in his heart — that knife! 

He ran forward, dropping on his knees beside 
the body. It was incredible ; the hand he touched 
was yet warm — not a minute had passed since he 


50 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


had been struck down; but the assassin? 

He saw that other man coming toward him; 
he heard the gay laughter of the guests change 
into low prayers and words of horror. Questions 
were poured on the supposed priest, who could 
answer nothing; and as he rose from beside the 
dead form he met the eyes of Zanalta fastened 
on him with a gaze so peculiar that he instinctively 
shrank from the meaning of it. 

“ But the assassin?'’ demanded one of the gen- 
tlemen. “His heart has scarce ceased to beat; 
the wretch who did the deed can not have gone 
far; we must search.” 

“ Search not beyond the walls of the garden,” 
answered Zanalta; “why even beyond the man 
whom we found over the corpse?” 

“The priest?” 

“ No, not a priest ; strip that gown from oif the 
assassin’s shoulders, and you will find under it an 
adventurer, a ranger of the rivers called — ” 

“De Bayarde!” answered iht voyageur, him- 
self flinging aside the disguise no longer needed. 
“Basil de Bayarde, gentlemen; but no assassin.” 

“ Say you so?” asked Zanalta; “then it is your 
word against mine, fellow, for I heard your voices 
in anger in the garden. I hurried here, and found 
you about to flee from the crime at your feet ; and 
see, gentlemen, notice the hilt of the knife, a knife 
such as river men wear.” 

“And on it letters — the saints guard us! — 
they spell ‘ Bayarde.’ ” 


VENDA 


51 


The young ranger gazed on the dark faces in 
wonder. He seemed stunned by the weight of ac- 
cusation brought against him. And then from 
the house ran Felice to the spot where they told 
her the master was hurt. But once there she gave 
scarce a glance at the body of her uncle, but Vv^ith 
a face full of horror she turned to her lover. 

“ You have killed him this time,^’ she whispered. 
‘^Oh, Basil r’ 

‘'Felice, do you accuse — ’’ 

“Accuse you? Never that, never. You hear, 
gentlemen? you listen? It is my uncle who lies 
there, yet I accuse — accuse no one!’’ 

And for the second time that day she swayed, 
deathlike, toward him. But he read, as the others 
read, her real suspicion under that loyal protest, 
and something like a groan arose at sight of her. 

“You, too, Felice?” he murmured, and then 
turned to the others. “ You wish to arrest me, I 
see, and for a murder. I have never committed 
one; but there stands a man who has lied to ac- 
cuse me, and your good laws, gentlemen, will 
doubtless ask my life tomorrow ; my debts to this 
world must be paid quickly, and to him I owe — 
death!” 

And then he leaped over the body of Le Noy- 
ens, and full at Zanalta’s throat. But a dozen 
forms were hurled against him, and he was 
dragged backward, leaving Zanalta unharmed 
but a little breathless ; and as the slave-girl came 
forward through the shrubbery, as if fascinated 


52 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


by the horror there, the eyes of the Spaniard met 
hers, with a wealth of meaning in them. 

'^Assist your mistress, Zizi. And for this as- 
sault upon myself, and for the murder I was wit- 
ness to, this fellow shall have a sentence heavier 
than death itself — transportation for life to the 
mines of Mexico.” 

The gentlemen looked at each other in horror. 
The mines wdre a hell, even to the black giants of 
their land ; and this bright-haired youth — 

Gentlemen, if I am condemned for this crime 
— if there is councilor or judge among you all, I 
ask of you death — for death. I have fought for 
this colony against the reds of the north. I ask 
the death of a soldier.” 

At the word death ” the slave-girl stepped for- 
ward, but Zanalta checked her with a glance. 

“ I am of the council,” he retorted, '' so I prom- 
ise you an assassin shall not have the death of 
a soldier under our laws. Die you shall — but in 
the mines, where devils of your own kind con- 
gregate, and the death will not be swift.” 

The accused raised his hand as if in prophecy. 

Beware, then, the day of my return, for the dead 
come back, they say, and on the day when God’s 
hand frees me, I shall remember you.'* 

Zanalta tried to laugh, but failed; and as two 
of the gentlemen touched Bayarde’s arms to lead 
him away, the slave-girl again motioned appeal- 
ingly to the Spaniard, but his eyes were bent on 
her so threateningly that she slowly bowed her 


TWO STRANGERS FROM FRANCE 53 

head, and avoided the eyes of the prisoner, who 
turned toward her with a mute farewell for Felice. 

And the old gray parrot in the arbor chattered 
over and over a name it had heard so lately — a 
new name, and strange as new music on the ear 
— ' Venda — venda — vendaient.'’ 


CHAPTER III 

TWO STRANGERS FROM FRANCE 

Slowly as time loiters in the South lands, and 
drowsily as the days pass under the myrtles, yet 
the seasons are driven onward, each in its turn, 
and many had passed ere the record of life on the 
island by the many-mouthed river is resumed. 

And it is a finer life than of old, despite hurri- 
canes that had swept it, and disease that had often 
weakened it. Names and families had grown 
stronger, commerce had widened, plantations had 
driven the jungles farther back from the gulf — 
only the waters remained the same, and the 
green-fenced bayous still held many a mystery. 

And of the names known widely in the grow- 
ing town, none held more power than that of 
Zanalta. Youth was no longer his, nor yet age; 
but the man of forty had developed all the prom- 
ise of Diego eighteen years earlier — a good com- 
rade, a courteous cavalier, a thorough politician. 


54 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


Not an office held by a servant of Spain was be- 
yond the range of his ambitious hopes, and many 
prophesied that he would yet be ruler in the new 
land. 

Was it for such ambitions that he was yet a 
bachelor — that, despite his gallantries to the 
many, he had not yet devoted his life to the hap- 
piness of any one lady ? 

There were those who remembered that he 
was once the suitor of beautiful dead Felice St. 
Malo, and whispered that as the cause of his 
celibacy. He smiled a little when these whispers 
reached him, and reaped the benefit of sympathy 
bent on him through soft eyes. It is so much 
easier for women to forgive constancy to a dead 
rival than to a living one. 

But the faces of women were seldom lacking in 
his establishment. His house was a hospitable 
one; a sister-in-law from old Spain, and a half- 
sister, widowed, yet childish, were of his house- 
hold, and beauty of high degree gathered often 
in his garden and under the arches of his dwell- 
ing-place while slaves by the score called him 
master. 

And in the spring-time of ’92, when a ship of 
France arrived in the harbor with the exciting 
intelligence of revolt that was openly talked of in 
the streets of Paris, and when among other pas- 
sengers to disembark came two cavaliers, young, 
engaging, and utter strangers, it was to the hos- 
pitable roof of Diego Zanalta they were recom- 


TWO STRANGERS FROM FRANCE 55 


mended by the captain of the vessel. Had they 
letters of introduction to people who could not be 
found? Then most assuredly Don Diego would 
be the one to advise them ; and the gracious com- 
mander, who scented reflected glory from those 
be jeweled courtiers, even took it upon himself to 
be their messenger, and found the family about 
to leave for a fete to be celebrated at the house 
of one of the high dignitaries of the town — one 
Monsieur Victor Lamort, an exile from the shores 
of France, but one who had brought with him so 
much wealth that he lived like a prince in the city 
of jungles, and was even called by the people '' Le 
Grande Marquis.’’ 

Don Diego had already gone, but to the dazzled 
eyes of Le Commandant there appeared instead 
the vision of a petite dame in the bewildering 
garb of a court lady, and from nodding plume to 
silvered slipper there floated tissues of rose, and 
her voice was the voice of a child who laughs. 

'Mn truth I am sorry my brother is not to be 
seen, but learning you are commander of the for- 
eign vessel just landed, I have ventured to pre- 
sent my insignificant self in his august stead. Now 
pray tell me if your business is of weight. If so, 
I may chance to further it.” 

Business! The ruler of a ship and many men 
was confused and dismayed by so fair an ambassa- 
dress. She prompted a man to make such declara- 
tions of love with his eyes that, abashed by his 
own willingness, his glances sought the tiled floor 


56 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


while he strove to recall the reason for his pres- 
ence there. 

Ah, yes; those annoying cavaliers from France 
who waited his return. Was he then to open the 
gate for them to so much beauty? How hard it 
is at times to keep envy out of the heart ! 

And the little lady was so greatly interested. 
Nobles from France? — fresh from the court life 
of Versailles, perhaps — of a certainty their so- 
ciety was to be desired. 

“I will myself be their message-bearer to my 
brother,’' she conceded, graciously. “Tell me 
again their names and where they are to be 
found.” 

“Mademoiselle — ” 

“Madame,” she corrected; “Madame Ninon 
Villette.” 

“ A thousand pardons, madame.” 

“ One is enough, and it is granted. The names 
of the gentlemen?” 

“ First, Chevalier Maurice Delogne, late of the 
king’s household, Versailles.” 

“Oh-h! this is indeed news of import; and the 
other?” 

“Monsieur Constante Raynel, a friend of the 
chevalier.” 

“ And their wishes ? ” 

“They carry letters of introduction to some 
whose names have been unknown in the town for 
many 3^ears. Don Zanalta having much knowl- 
edge of men, I thought would be able to advise 


TWO STRANGERS FROM FRANCE 57 


them where is were best to seek those people.” 

‘‘I am convinced you are a most sensible and 
kind-hearted gentleman, and you did right to seek 
our house in the case of strangers. I go at once 
to the fete, and am assured my brother will send 
immediately an invitation for the chevalier and 
his friend to wait upon him. Where are they to 
be found?” 

'' By my faith, that is a question not so easy to 
answer, niadame. I can only tell where I left 
them, and that was near the banquette, and the 
chevalier was bribing little demi-sativages and 
black children to stand still, or lie down, or dance, 
according to the mood of Monsieur Raynel, who 
caught all their strange postures and fixed them 
upon paper by the aid of a charcoal-stick, and the 
two were laughing like children, and may have 
wandered far in adventure ere this.” 

The childish eyes of madame grew more round, 
and she smiled in sympathy with those two whom 
she had not yet seen. 

''Then I am to believe they are not old, those 
two gentlemen who seek adventure on our 
shores?” 

" I venture to say they will never feel old when 
they look at you, madame.” And having thus 
turned aside her curiosity by a compliment. Mon- 
sieur le Commandant withdrew from the pres- 
ence of Ninon — Madame Villette; and madame, 
when alone, sighed distressfully, and pouted those 
fine lips of hers most becomingly. 


58 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


In truth I am sadly weary of these gallants of 
our Orleans town, and hoped this chevalier and 
this Constante of the charcoal-stick would at least 
have youth, and make it worth one's time to fash- 
ion new gowns for their eyes. Alas ! this island is 
a cage, and I am weary of pluming myself when 
young eyes never look through the bars. ^They 
will never feel old when they look at you, ma- 
dame,' and she bowed mockingly to her own re- 
flection in the mirror ; which means, in short, that 
they are gray-bearded ancients; Jupiter s, who 
would make love as they forge thunderbolts, pon- 
derously. I prefer an Adonis." 

And those gray-bearded ancients? 

Down where the water whimpered along the 
banquette as though afraid of the night coming 
on, strolled the two strangers, finding the strange 
outdoor life much more to their liking than the 
cafe where they had agreed to live for the present. 

The sun was sending arrows of yellow glinting 
across the great slow-moving river, and gave a 
fine background for the human pictures ever and 
anon arranging themselves unconsciously for an 
artist eye. 

''Sacre! I never before dreamed that a negresse 
could be good to look at," said he of the charcoal- 
stick, as he stretched himself along a wooden 
bench and gazed through eyes half-closed at a 
little black girl whose arms circled a basket of 
oranges. “Think, Maurice, how disastrous it 
would be if I should have crossed the seas only 


TWO STRANGERS FROM FRANCE 59 


to lose my heart to one of these bare-legged bits 
of bronze flesh, or perchance a feather-trimmed 
savage of that rich red color such as we saw pass 
in the log boat ! I tremble, my friend ; I warn you 
I am afraid ! ’’ 

Lose your heart, pouf ! Your head, you mean ; 
for ril venture an oath it would not be less than 
the hundredth heartbreak you have lived through 
since we left our school-books. I wonder much 
whether it is your art which tempts you to beauty 
and love, or love that has made you an artist ? ’’ 
The latter, I do believe. I always fall in love 
with my model, else the work has no interest for 
me; hence my rule to paint only that which is 
beautiful. It is so horrible to fall in love with 
ugliness, and it is dangerous, too. For once allow 
an ugly woman to fascinate you, and her chain 
is of iron; beauty’s chain is of flowers, and when 
faded will fall to pieces of its own weight.” 

‘'You speak wisely as a past-master in the art 
of love,” smiled his friend; "but however en- 
trancing the subject of the sentiments, I deplore 
the fact that you so frequently succumb to its 
allurements.” 

"Enough; do not resume on these shores the 
lectures on reason which caused me so many 
weary hours in the land we left; and, after all, 
the heart has reasons which reason can not com- 
prehend.” 

"You are a hopeless case, Constante. We ar- 
rive here to begin life anew, do work, I know not 


60 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


what yet. Surely our prospects are most serious ; 
yet we have scarce touched the shore of the 
strangers when you see a red maiden paddling 
in a boat, a black one vending fruit on the street, 
and at once dream of a rendezvous. Ah! alas 
for myself, I am fond of you, else my patience 
would surely break. You demand everything of 
life, yet are willing to work for so little. A man's 
life should hold action as well as dreams. And 
your ambitions — your hopes for the future?" 

‘'Simple, my friend, most simple, I assure you; 
only to live in this semi-tropical land as in the 
Garden of Eden our Father Adam lived — " 
“Ah!" 

“After the fall!" 

“By my faith, now, but I would like to see 
some maiden of this savage land bring you to 
your senses with a love that would burn your 
light fancies into forgetfulness. You see in love 
only a pretty comedy, to be played by two, and 
with a laughing world for an audience, while 
love, the real, is more often a tragedy. All devo- 
tion, passion, is a lonely, serious thing. It is the 
great teacher, but its eyes do not laugh." 

His friend laughed silently, and made the sign 
of the cross in the air with which to exorcise so 
formidable a spirit as serious, tragical devotion. 

“Could I find Monsieur Cupid I would send 
him to you for lessons, Maurice. You would 
teach him to make every gallant a poet. I won- 
der now what fair instructress has influenced 


TWO STRANGERS FROM FRANCE 61 


you to such serious reflections, you that kiss a 
lady’s fingers; but — oh, well, am I to believe, 
then, the gossip of the guard-room, and think of 
a truth that the interest of Madame la Princess 

de H was that of a butterfly ready to be 

caught, rather than that of an illustrious patron- 
ess of deserving soldiery, or rather one handsome 
soldier ? That finale deserves your best bow, my 
chevalier.” 

''You need a sound caning. Monsieur Imperti- 
nence,” retorted the other, as a blush slowly cov- 
ered his cheek. "If Madame la Princess needs 
consolation it will not be to courtiers she will turn, 
but to God. Her illustrious but unhappy life 
may make of her a saint, but never a Messalina.” 

"You think so because she resisted the tempta- 
tion of her heart, and sent you so far she could 
not recall you, eh? Oh, I see! I observed sev- 
eral things there at Versailles, my friend, though 
you give me no credit for seeing things seriously. 
But I am proud of you, just the same, for doing 
the thing I fear — oh, my tender heart! — I fear I 
should not have found resolution to do. Your 
blush and your silence do you honor, Maurice, 
and they honor that lady across the seas who 
was so cruel as to banish you.” 

"The lady across the seas whose influence di- 
rected me here, was my aunt, Le Marquise de 
Lescure. Please bear that in mind, Constante. 
The princess belongs to the life we have left, and 
is not a subject for jests. It was my aunt who 


62 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


urged my coming here to look after some prop- 
erties bought here long since by some friend. 
I have scarce looked at the letters of instruction 
yet. She asked me not to do so until after my 
arrival. Even the letters of introduction have 
not been examined by me, though I am con- 
vinced they are all I could wish. Since my birth 
she has been like a mother to me; and while I 
am puzzled at her earnest desire that I should 
leave France for five years, and build up inter- 
ests here, yet I have refused her nothing all my 
life, and did not withhold the promise. I only 
want you to understand, once for all, Constante, 
that it was for family reasons and because of my 
aunt's desire that I am here." 

“Um! yes. I understand, also, that the love- 
ly old marquise is the closest friend, the confi- 
dante, of Madame la Princess. Ah, Maurice, 
you would never make a politician, for you would 
be in the midst of plots, yet never unbend to fer- 
ret them out. If they grew too thick, or hedged 
you around, you would cut your way through 
with the help of your sword. But when women 
plot, swords are worthless as the rushes there by 
the river. And whether you know it or not, my 
comrade, not one woman, but two, drew up your 
plan of exile." 

''And how many your own, you romancer?" 

"My own? Happy am I to answer — none. 
You see I never had the misfortune to be loved 
seriously by a saint; and the consequence is, I 


TWO STRANGERS FROM FRANCE 63 


had not to take a discreet farewell by touching 
a lady’s fingers with my mustache. I assure, you, 
no ! I kissed three ladies in waiting most ardent- 
ly, and was about to complete a quartette when 
the husband of number four was so inconsider- 
ate as to enter the audience-chamber. Ah, these 
husbands ! By the time I become one, I hope to 
have learned the lesson of making my wife hap- 
py occasionally by eflfacing myself.” 

When you are a husband ? Who do you 
fancy will live to see that day?” 

'' Both of us, believe it. I am not the Cheva- 
lier Maurice Delogne, with an ancient name and 
prospective worldly comforts. I am only ‘that 
droll rascal Raynel,’ who has a curious talent 
with colors, but who lacks the application to 
make himself great. Well, it is so. I am con- 
tent to drift with you and trust to fortune while 
I may. But I warn you that if a female Croesus 
should cross our path, I speak for her. She is 
mine — do you comprehend? — for I need her, 
while you do not. And if I should want help in 
my wooing, or if other suitors intervene and have 
to be — well — removed, I bespeak your aid in the 
cause of true love.” 

“Love of the lady’s purse, but not her heart! 
And what if the Lady Croesus should be ugly, 
and old, and unpleasing, then what would our 
devotee of beauty do?” 

“Win her, beyond a doubt; for I would com- 
mence my wooing by painting her a mask with 


64 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


so much of youth and charm in it that she would 
grant me the rest of her life as a reward for my 
devotion.” 

Constante, do you never grow weary of your 
own fanciful dreams? Here have we talked of 
trifles until the sun has gone. You must wait 
until another day to continue your finding of pic- 
tures.” And the chevalier arose to continue the 
walk to the cafe, when Constante gripped his 
arm and made a low whistling sound with his 
lips — an expression of surprise. 

'‘By all the shades of angel faces — no!” he 
whispered ; " turn not too quickly lest she vanish 
again to paradise, but note that crippled one- 
armed sailor and the being who bends over him ! 
Sacre! I myself would lose an arm for such a 
glance of pity from those eyes. Aye, even my 
head ! ” 

"You have lost the latter already,” returned 
his friend, irritably; "and as a cause I see only 
a slight figure in a nun’s dress of gray, but with 
white sleeves. I can see no face, because of that 
gray nun’s hood, so fail to discover your reason 
for raving. She looks, however, as though she 
might be the very spirit of charity from the way 
in which that unfortunate is gazing up at her — 
but you, my friend, do not need alms, so come.” 

They were but a short distance from the object 
of their conversation, whom they must pass in 
their walk. It seemed a very poor quarter of 
the town into which they had wandered — a sort 


TWO STRANGERS FROM FRANCE 65 


of open-air hospital for unfortunates — and as 
the gray-garbed nun turned from the crippled 
man to a woman who held a sickly, complaining 
child, she came face to face with the two strang- 
ers. The chevalier was so directly in her path 
that for one awkward instant they essayed to 
pass each other, yet remained to gaze with mu- 
tual wondering attraction into each other’s eyes. 

And then he was not surprised at the enthusi- 
asm of his friend, for the face was wonderful, 
with all its childishness subdued by the nun-like 
dress, and the bronze-gold hair framed in the 
gray hood, and those eyes with their serious di- 
rectness, in color the blue-gray of the Mexican 
sea at twilight. 

All this he saw in that moment, and had time 
to be glad that the waved hair about her face 
forbade the idea that she was entirely given to 
the church. And then he found himself with 
head bared before her, murmuring words for 
pardon as he stepped from her path. She made 
no reply, but the grace of her glance was evi- 
dence that she considered him no culprit, and the 
faint flush creeping over her face made his 
breath come quickly. 

He had forgotten Constante, but that gentle- 
man had neither forgotten nor missed anything 
of the wordless drama before him. He touched 
his friend’s arm with a comical expression of 
despair, as though to lead him from temptation. 


66 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


while a ponderous sigh was evidence that he 
noted his friend’s backward glance. 

‘'And she never looked at me,” he complained. 
“To be sure, I am not so largely built as you, but 
I am quite as handsome. The only thing that 
consoles me, Maurice, is that her garb shows she 
is not my Lady Croesus, so I can relinquish her 
to you with one heartache the less.” 

“A truce, Constante. It is provoking enough 
to remember I have stared at that child until her 
face changed color with vexation; remind me 
not of it. But, as gentlemen, is it not a duty 
for us to remain near until we see her depart 
from this region in safety? We heard strange, 
rough oaths down there by those fisher-huts, and 
that way is her face turned. She may be some 
innocent who has strayed thus far in work of 
charity, and suspects not the dangerous sur- 
roundings. Is that your idea ? ” 

“I have not an idea in my head — the last one 
vanished when I saw her face ; but it may chance 
I can borrow one from the man to whom she 
spoke.” 

And before Maurice could remonstrate, the 
impetuous youth had crossed the walk and was 
speaking to the one-armed sailor. 

“ Who ? Oh, that is our Denise, St. Denise, so 
the sailors call her ; and many a saint is pictured 
in foreign churches who had never so kind a 
hand for the poor and miserable, and by my oath 
was never so beautiful.” 


TWO STRANGERS FROM FRANCE 67 


''Ah, that is just it; we are strangers, and 
feared that so much beauty may have cause for 
fear among those rough comrades over there. 
Has she friends or guardian near ? ’’ 

"Your question proves you are a stranger’’ — 
and the man looked at him with sharp scrutiny — 
"and I would tell you, my fine gallant, that you 
had best dance elsewhere for a partner. A 
guardian? Why, boy, there is not along all this 
shore a man so low that he would not jump at 
the honor of fighting for Denise. Guardians? 
I could call a score of them from where I sit ; 
so go your way and save your time.” 

" Come, Constante, you will only be misjudged 
for your pains; we will learn of others concern- 
ing the lady. But I am glad enough to hear she 
is so safe.” 

"I will get myself a wooden leg to-morrow,” 
decided the artist. But his friend halted him 
with a rather close grip on the arm. 

"I will take care that you do nothing of the 
kind,” he answered, decidedly, "and I assure 
you that the Lady Denise shall not be added 
to your list of models. I have borne with your 
whims, you must bear with mine in this ; do you 
comprehend?” 

Constante only looked at him a little wick- 
edly from out the corner of his eye, but uttered 
no word beyond a low muttering, which con- 
tinued as they walked onward, and Maurice 
noticed that his hands were clasped devoutly. 


68 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


'‘What new mischief are you brewing?’’ he 
demanded. 

"Mischief? Ah, you wrong me, monsieur. I 
but say a prayer for the memory of Madame la 
Princess, a memory buried at sunset on the 
shores of Orleans, and under curls of deepest 
bronze.” 


CHAPTER IV 
"master, buy me!” 

Adventure seemed to be abroad in their path 
that first evening, for they had but reached again 
the main thoroughfare, and were passing a cafe 
chantant, where the sons of planters and the 
younger gallants of the town were often seen, 
when the door burst open and a struggling 
couple staggered out, flanked on either side by 
friends, remonstrating, urging, and cursing. 

The crowd gathering so quickly was of all 
shades and motley in character, but it seemed 
impossible for any in authority to penetrate to 
the doorway where those two struggled for pos- 
session of a knife held high in the hand of the 
taller man. 

A gentleman halted near Maurice and Con- 
stante, hesitated a moment, and then flung him- 
self against the crowd as if to crush people aside 
with his weight. 

But quick as light a woman sped before him. 


MASTER, BUY ME’ 


69 


'' Hist ! master,” she said, shrilly, and threw 
up her hand to check him ; for a slave it does 
not matter — wait ! ” 

She had dropped a great basket at the feet of 
the two strangers, and having succeeded in turn- 
ing aside the gentleman, she seemed to sink 
among the feet of the swaying crowd, and an 
instant later reappeared farther in the circle. 

Room was made for her with astonishing read- 
iness — men shrank from her touch; and when 
she reached those two, and leaped upward like 
an animal at that hand holding the knife, a 
smothered cry went up from the watching people. 
Would it mean death? 

But the very suddenness of her grasp secured 
the knife without a struggle ; in an instant it was 
flung from her high in the air, and the people 
scattered, with cries of fear lest it fall on their 
heads, but they never saw it come down. Oaths 
came from some mouths, others crossed them- 
selves in fear. 

‘‘The black witch!” 

“Think you she swallowed it?” 

“Ah! that devil-marked voudou!” 

And in the excitement the wrangler who had 
held the knife slipped away, leaving the youth 
who was his opponent in the quarrel standing 
alone, looking ashamed and puzzled, while the 
woman walked quietly back and picked up her 
basket. 

“ Thank you, masters,” she said, softly, noting 


70 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


that the strangers had guarded it for her ; '' you 
are kind/’ 

Before they could speak, the man whom she 
had checked crossed to her and touched her arm. 

''You sought to favor me, girl, and you did a 
brave thing there. Tell me your name.” 

She dropped her eyes, perhaps in embarrass- 
ment, and arranged a kerchief over her hair — 
hair strangely white above the dark-imaged 
face — hair for which they called her "devil- 
marked.” 

"My name — Venda.” 

"Venda — and your master’s name?” 

" Master Diego Zanalta.” 

"Ah, I know him well, and recall now that I 
have seen your face in his house. W^ell, Venda, 
I shall take heed that your master knows how 
careful you are of his friends, and if there is 
aught beyond a gold-piece I can do for you, 
speak.” 

She hesitated, glancing at the two strangers, 
and the chevalier bowed to her questioner. 

"Pardon us, monsieur; we have forgotten we 
were eavesdroppers in our admiration of the 
work just performed by this woman, whom you 
do well to praise. We will withdraw.” 

" I beg you, no, young gentlemen ; our interest 
is mutual, since the case seems strange to us both. 
Speak, Venda, without fear — your wish?” 

"Master Lamort?” 

"Yes — well?” 


MASTER, BUY ME’ 


71 


Master — buy me ! 

Buy you ? Well, on my word, this is a strange 
request. I shall ask your reasons for it. You 
are valuable, no doubt ; but why should I deprive 
Don Zanalta of a treasure?’’ 

‘'You are Alcalde; you are kind to slaves, to 
the red Indians, even. You know many masters 
take slaves because they live on land new bought ; 
so Master Zanalta took me and land for debt. He 
has many others.” 

“And so have I, Venda, and life in my house 
is not joyous as in that of Zanalta where ladies 
laugh. I have no beauty for you to serve.” 

“ Master, I know what you have, many hands 
to bear burdens, many feet to run swiftly; but 
I know what you need, one heart to be faithful, 
one whose eyes see in the dark, one whose ears 
are ever awake if danger hides near, one whose 
hand is ever ready to grasp a knife for your 
cause as — as Venda did but now, master.” 

She dropped her gaze under his sharp scru- 
tiny; and her eyes filled with tears when he 
smiled carelessly. 

“To grasp a knife for me in the cause of 
peace? Well, Venda, you do me honor to make 
choice of me for master; but I am growing old 
and slow of thought; I must have time before 
making decision. Above all, I must speak to 
your master. So meanwhile — ” 

He yet held in his jeweled fingers the piece of 
gold drawn from his purse, more than the slave 


72 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


had ever owned, perhaps, but she shook her 
head. 

“Not your gold, master; so, master, good- 
night.’^ 

“A most strange one, truly,” commented the 
gentleman, pocketing again the money. “I ven- 
ture to say her twin has never been born. Pray 
you, did either of you see the stiletto fall? I 
have seen such feats among conjurers of the Far 
East, but it is strange to see it in this new land 
and by means of an untaught slave.” 

“She seems less ignorant than many,” de- 
clared the chevalier, “and her courage makes 
her a bit wonderful, so it seems to us, at least; 
but we are new to your shores, and have much 
to which to grow accustomed.” 

“ You are, then, strangers ? I judged as much ; 
and from France? If so, we are like to meet 
again, as the passports of strangers often need 
my approval. From France, you say? I am 
Victor Lamort; all the townspeople know me. 
If I can serve you, command me.” 

He did not wait their reply, or names, but 
bowed like a courtier and walked away, touch- 
ing his walking-stick daintily as he went, and 
moving in haste, as though too long delayed. 

“ There is a man I feel it would be well to meet 
often, despite his name of gloom,” said the chev- 
alier. “ He walks like a soldier ; and did you note 
that scar on the cheek ? A battle-wound, I doubt 
not.” 


“MASTER, BUY ME’ 


73 


“Soldiers wear not golden buckles on their 
street-boots/' returned Constante; “and he must 
be a most valiant warrior to earn with his sword 
such jewels as gleam among his laces. If one 
can creep from the ranks up to that in this coun- 
try, ril enlist. But I fancy I would become more 
proud after great achievements than this grand- 
ly careless Monsieur Lamort.” And the fun- 
loving fellow strutted and minced along as 
though he already bore jeweled decorations, 
while his cane was flourished as though it were 
a symbol of sovereignty. 

“ Modest ? Yes, he is that ; but it seems in him 
a stamp of true greatness. There is a wondrous 
fascination for me in this gray-bearded digni- 
tary. Did you note his musical voice ? 

“There, there, Maurice — to fall in love once 
in an evening is enough even for me; but you 
lose your heart on one corner to a gray nun, and 
a few paces farther yield to the fascinations of 
a scarred veteran. For my part, I was both be- 
witched and frightened by the brown dame who 
uses knives as playthings, and can scatter a mob 
as though she were a breath of pestilence. The 
black witch, I heard some call her. Faith! I 
will be sworn she is one; and she’d go begging 
for a master many a day ere Fd consent to make 
purchase of her.” 

And the one called the “voudou ” and the 
“black witch” moved on through the gloaming 
and the soft breath which falls over the earth 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


^74 

when the new moon shines. She was not yet 
old, but her step dragged heavily; no one look- 
ing on the white hair could have pictured her as 
ever having been that passionate bright-haired 
creature who had lived for a season as royal 
favorite in the days of Gaston le Noyens. 

A judgment had come upon her in the silence 
of her own heart. Untrained savage though she 
was, the memory of poor dead Mistress Felice, 
and more, the lover of Felice — those two ghosts 
of the past days rose before her in the shadows 
or in the sunshine and held her very soul in their 
grasp, filling her life with a remorse unexpressed 
and inexpressible. 

Thus it was that she walked ever alone in the 
midst of the other blacks, who sang and who 
danced, choosing mates, and laughing at times 
while they toiled; but she toiled unsmiling. 

Once only had she been heard to laugh aloud 
in the home of her new master, where she and 
many others of the Le Noyens plantation had 
been taken in payment of a debt to Zanalta. 

And that one day of laughter had been one 
to remember in the household; for scornful Pe- 
pita, who was half white, had jeered tauntingly 
at fine, high Lady Felice, who, it was whispered, 
had mated to her shame with the river ruffian 
exiled to the mines as an assassin. 

And then had Venda laughed — laughed as 
one who goes to a festival — and had leaped 
straight at the throat of frightened Pepita, and 


MASTER, BUY ME’ 


75 


clung there until they cut her fingers with 
knives, and tore her loose only when two men 
lifted her bodily and bore her thus with her 
bleeding fingers into the presence of her new 
master. 

“Yes, I strangled Pepita, but not dead, be- 
cause they were fools and dragged me away. 
She-devil, Pepita; say my little mistress bad, 
wicked; she say Master Basil bad, assassin — 
that is why.’’ 

And Diego Zanalta looked strangely on those 
bleeding fingers, so the men who guarded her 
said, and looked strangely in her dark, desper- 
ate face, but uttered no word of chiding. 

“Did you think I would kill you if you killed 
Pepita?” he asked. “No, Venda; I would have 
you whipped many times, but I would not let 
them kill you. Remember that, girl.” 

Then he turned to the men. 

“Tell Pepita she will go to the rice fields if I 
ever again hear her say ill words of a white lady. 
Go now, but leave Venda here.” 

And they did so, but watched curiously for 
her appearance. Diego Zanalta with his cool 
words was feared more by the blacks than any 
master who would storm and threaten, and 
many had prophesied that the new woman who 
had tried to kill poor Pepita would surely fare 
ill at his hands. They never thought to see her 
again in the rooms of the house. 

But she walked through them all in insolent 


76 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


silence. They could read neither defeat nor tri- 
umph in her slumbrous eyes, but the silver ank- 
lets still made music when she walked, her 
bodice and petticoat were of linen, the scarf she 
wore was yet a thing of silk and scarlet; so no 
outward sign of glory had departed from her. 

‘'She is a devil voudou, she has put a charm 
on the master,'’ whispered the others, though 
they dared not say aught of their fancies in her 
presence. Others there were of the slaves who 
would be proud to be spoken of as favorite, but 
she was different; she never smiled, and she 
made them afraid. 

Sometimes they fancied she made the master 
afraid too, for as the days went by they noted 
that he never asked of her personal service ; that 
she served his guests but never the master him- 
self at table; that she never knowingly entered 
a room where he was alone, and if by chance she 
did, one or the other would immediately depart. 
Once when he was ill for a space, the physician 
sent cordials and instructions by her to him. His 
oaths were emphatic as he bade his serving-man 
never to open the door to her, and all through 
one delirious night he muttered, “Venda, Ven- 
da," and begged that she would not be allowed 
to look at him so. 

Yet he kept her, and thus began the whispers 
of witchcraft; and she kept their fancies alive 
by many strange cures performed by her. If 
any living thing was likely to bleed to death. 


“ MASTER BUY ME 


77 


Venda, instead of a priest or physician, was 
called, and with the touch of her hands and a 
few muttered words the blood would cease to 
flow. Let the friends say what they would, 
both the white and the black people went to her 
for charms, and bought from her the little vials 
of serpent's-oil with which to cure strange aches 
in the bones after the fever had been with them. 
Even the Indian slaves, taken of old from the 
Natchez tribe, would nod approval of her cures, 
and call her the silent medicine-woman. 

But for all the help she gave, there were many 
who feared to pass her in the road when the 
dusk fell, and as her silk-turbaned hair turned 
so swiftly to the color of age they called her 
devil-marked. And that evening when she had 
begged to be bought by a new master, she 
walked as usual, silent, through the streets, and 
never noted the awesome glances cast at her as 
the natives muttered of the stiletto yet in the air 
above their heads — ''a good stiletto,” said 
friends of the owner; ''and who was to pay 
for it?” 

But heavier thoughts than those of the stilet- 
to weighed her brain. She scarce heeded when 
her steps brought her to the grounds of Zanalta, 
and would have passed the gate but for black 
Gourfi, who hailed her. 

"Do you walk under a charm that you pass 
the master's door and not know ? ” he demanded. 
" Here have they waited, the Mistress Ninon 


78 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


and old Mistress Mercedes, for you to finish 
their decking for the fete, and you strolling the 
streets just to hear your ankle-bands tinkle — ■ 
though you will never take a mate to dance to 
their music.” And he looked at her meaningly, 
for Gourfi, who could speak well the language 
of the whites, was in many ways a steward to 
his master, and he found Venda good to look 
upon, seeing no reason why she should be proud 
with him though she scorned the others. 

But she seemed not to note who spoke, only 
asked, “Have they departed?” 

“That they have, with Sandro and Bula to 
carry the train of old mistress, and she scolding 
every step to the chair and vowing master must 
sell you. Si! but she was in a fine rage! She'll 
speak to master, be sure of it. Do you never 
care, Venda?” 

“ No, I never care.” And she walked into the 
house and left him there watching her sullenly. 

“If I was white — if I had gold, Gourfi should 
be her master. There is none like her among 
our people. She looks from her eyes like the red 
Indian slaves, whose race they say once owned 
these lands; just like them when they are angry, 
and silent — always silent. Voudou! I care not 
for the devil charms if she would but look on 
me.” 


AN EVENING WITH MONSIEUR LAMORT 79 


CHAPTER V 

AN EVENING WITH MONSIEUR LAMORT 

Black Gourfi was entirely correct in his 
statement that Sehora Mercedes Sofie Zanalta 
was in a fine rage, for so she was, truly. Even 
the magnificence of the new sedan-chair in which 
she was borne, did nothing to temper her cha- 
grin, and against the “black faces,’' singly and 
in a body, did she exclaim. 

“Oh, aunt, be patient!” entreated Ninon, 
wearily. “ Since you look so magnificent, what 
matters it whose hands laced your bodice, or 
clasped the plumes in your hair? I know they’ll 
be much admired, even by the ladies. And as 
for Monsieur Lamort — well, he is a bachelor, 
but I dare hope no longer after his eyes rest on 
you. Come, now; think no longer of a careless 
slave, but please your mind with prospects of 
the fete we are about to enjoy. Few wearing 
so fine a gown will gather there, I promise you.” 

“ Si ! the costume is good enough ; the catch- 
ing of the folds with roses is a trick of Madrid 
days — the saints be blest for the memory of 
them! — and the veil I decided to wear was a 
fancy of my illustrious husband — St. Jago care 
for his soul ! He ever liked me to revive our day 
of wedding by dressing as a bride — the good 


80 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


soul has seen but the brides of paradise these 
thirty years — but that devil, Venda! Think you 
Anite arranged the wig with the cleverness of 
that cursed voudou ? A pretty pass, a very pretty 
pass, when slaves come and go as they like, and 
the word of a mistress weighs for nothing!'' 

“But, aunt — " 

“ Seek not to dissuade me from my righteous 
wrath. I tell you the girl shall be sold or sent 
to the fields ere another blessed day of God calls 
us to the chapel. There are other lands than 
this Louisiana, and if Diego Zanalta were ten 
times the brother of my husband, I take charge 
of his house no longer unless that insolent one 
is banished to the fields." 

“ Insolent, Venda insolent ! Has she ever made 
a saucy speech to you ? " 

“Can one only be insolent by words?" de- 
manded the irate lady; “her very silence is an 
insolence. Ah, the quiet devil ! " 

They had by this time reached the residence 
of Lamort, and the blaze of many-colored lights 
and the swing of the low-toned music made it 
a place easily marked for enjoyment; and from 
the arches of the portico several gentlemen, 
among them their host, came forward to give 
welcome to the fairest dame, and the most ex- 
acting, that the town held. 

Don Diego approached at the same moment 
from another direction, but, wise man that he 
was, discerned the frown on the brow of his 


AN EVENING WITH MONSIEUR LAMORT 81 


brother’s respected relict, and held aloof until 
the compliments of gallants had softened her 
thoughts toward mankind in general. 

And compliments were seldom lacking for 
Senora Mercedes, for was she not the outer gate 
to be captured ere a courtier gained the inner 
tower where Madame Ninon dwelt? 

She even forgot for a space that provoking 
wretch Venda, as she was led into the mansion 
by that most engaging Monsieur Lamort, and 
noticed with a hearty satisfaction that all fe- 
male eyes within range were turned wondering- 
ly on the rose-draped robe, and on the girlish 
tissue of white falling from the bewigged head. 

But the name of Zanalta was powerful enough 
to make amends for any eccentricity of its bear- 
ers; and if one could not do as he liked in this 
new land, why come ? The scene was semi- 
oriental in character; the dress — French or 
Spanish — of the ladies, a few in the latest court 
robes, such as were worn by Marie Antoinette 
and her maids at Versailles, but more, many 
more, of an older date; but the unerring taste 
of the Frenchwomen made those gowns things 
of grace, and buckles of diamonds fastened many 
a shoe over hosiery repaired so often one could 
scarce find enough of the original material to 
catch a needle-point in. Then there were half- 
Moorish dresses of old Spain — rustling bro- 
cades and flounced laces. The gentlemen in the 
gorgeous dress of Louis XV or the military 


82 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


dress of Spain ; and back of those gracious ladies 
and gay gallants glided the slaves in gala-dress, 
bare-armed, bare-throated, wearing sandals 
lashed to their feet with crimson bands, and 
necklets of bone and bright copper above their 
vestments of crimson and pale yellow. Assured- 
ly Monsieur Lamort understood how to make 
even those black toilers picturesque. He had 
brought fanciful ideas of such things from 
abroad, learned somewhere in those south seas 
of which he spoke at times, and from which he 
had brought great white pearls and glimmering 
jewels, toward which ladies looked languish- 
ingly. 

And to-night he had surpassed even himself 
in his effort to entertain the families of Orleans 
called noble; Sehora Mercedes was not the only 
one who had gathered up her dearest bravery 
for his eye — a good clear eye, that gleamed with 
rare pleasure that night, and swept over the 
proud assemblage with a glance which seemed 
to divine every needed attention for a guest. 

confess. Monsieur Lamort,’' said Diego 
Zanalta, as the wine of Oporto was served by 
deft-handed slaves, confess I tremble at the 
thought of the desert we would yet be existing 
in here if that lucky fight in the Floridas had 
not recommended us to your knowledge three 
years ago. We colonists were fast selling our- 
selves as slaves to commerce and financial ad- 
vancement, forgetting in our rush that the fine 


AN EVENING WITH MONSIEUR LAMORT 83 


air of salons, after all, does more to enliven the 
mind and brighten our faculties than the weigh- 
ing of gold in the market-places. Ah, monsieur, 
your fine old French spirit has reminded us that 
our homes may be made palaces here, and cured 
us of our grieving for courts across the water. 
Ladies, gentlemen, I salute you. To the health 
of our host ! ” 

The eyes of their host twinkled with a humor 
sardonic as he glanced over the gracious com- 
pany drinking to his health there in that Orleans 
where the laws of caste were strong as in any 
court of Europe. His bow and smiles professed 
him flattered by their distinguished homage, but 
his veiled eyes held sentiments unuttered by his 
lips. 

“By my faith, sirs,'' he returned, “you are re- 
minding me, by your mention of Florida, that 
we should repeat many an Ave Maria on this 
day, in token that we are so much better ofif than 
those in the swamps where the Seminole war- 
riors battled most wickedly. Even now I can 
scarce see the black mud of this delta without 
seeming also to hear the singing of arrows and 
the wild yells of those savage men. Yes, in- 
deed, my friends, we are better here than we 
were there." 

“Yet you seemed equally at home in their 
warfare," remarked a Monsieur Villeneuve, 
whose youthful admiration for the scarred vet- 
eran was apparent in his eyes. “That, my first 


84 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


battle, is a memorable thing to me, especially as 
I shall always carry with me the vision of your 
face as I saw it first. It seems to me yet that 
you were really laughing as you came to our 
relief across the sands, and gave us and the sav- 
ages an idea that you had an army at your heels ; 
few of us would have seen Orleans Island again 
but for you and your crew.’^ 

''And I might never have become one of your 
citizens but for the chance that sent my little 
vessel to the shore there that day. So you see 
it was I to whom the saints were kind. I was a 
stranger to your land, but you did not long allow 
me to remain so; and now — well, the building 
up of a grand commercial center here has be- 
come a pet fancy of mine, and I am proud to 
count myself as one of you. But I ask pardon 
of the ladies for speaking of commerce; we well 
know they dislike the term, and love only the 
things it brings to us. Even you, Madame Vil- 
lette, own a great warehouse; but have you not 
made us all wretched by stating that you will 
never give your hand to a man who buys or 
sells in the market-places ? ’’ 

"Then am I likely to walk alone forever on 
this island,’’ laughed Ninon, " for the gallants of 
Orleans are all awake to the advantages of bar- 
gains.” But the latter part of her speech was 
discreetly murmured, and only Monsieur La- 
mort caught its meaning or understood the quiz- 
zical glance she gave him; more than one of 


AN EVENING WITH MONSIEUR LAMORT 85 


those ambitious gallants would have given their 
youth for the smile of comprehension she ex- 
changed with the scarred veteran. Assuredly, 
Madame Villette and Monsieur Lamort ap- 
peared as good comrades. 

Oh, but I have a message to deliver here to- 
night,'’ she cried, suddenly; ''I had well-nigh 
forgotten it, but it concerns other strangers from 
France who arrived to-day, on the anniversary 
of your meeting with Orleans men, monsieur. 
And, Brother Diego, I entertained the com- 
mandant of the French ship since I saw you. He 
came to ask leave of you to present two strang- 
ers who sought names, or a name, no longer 
found in our town. The commandant seems a 
good soul, and was anxious to serve the strang- 
ers, whom he terms illustrious." 

“And their names, Ninon?" 

“Ah! forgotten already by me, except that 
one is a Chevalier something or other, and the 
second has Constante for a part of the name. 
Beyond that I have forgotten." 

“ You might as well have forgotten in the be- 
ginning," laughed her half-brother, “ for we are 
little the wiser. 'Chevalier,' of course, tells us 
something. Captain Nirosse ? Yes, his word is a 
good pledge. I shall be glad to serve his passen- 
gers." 

“ Can you remember, madame, if the men were 
young?" queried their host; and Madame Ninon 
raised her hands in pretty dismay. 


86 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


‘'Oh, monsieur! when I have not even seen 
their faces. The one thing I heard of them — 
their names — I have forgotten. So why ask of 
so simple a person the impossible?'’ 

“ Be not distressed, madame ; I am only your 
host this evening, not alcalde, so your evidence is 
not an imperative necessity to the assembly. But 
my question was not quite idle, either. This even- 
ing at sunset I met on the street Conde two 
strangers from France, most amiable in appear- 
ance, and the thought came to me that they might 
be the ones of whom you speak. Would I had 
known earlier they were recommended to your 
interest, Don Diego; it would have given me 
pleasure to have asked them here this evening. 
One’s first day in a strange land is so often a 
lonely one.” 

“ It is like you to remember that on this anni- 
versary,” said one fair woman of France whose 
eyes looked kindly on him, eyes aged through 
tears instead of years — a woman of an exiled 
family, whose two sons slept under myrtles there 
in the sands of Orleans. The sun and the breath 
of the swamps are often so hard on the newcom- 
ers. And those two strangers ? 

Monsieur Lamort looked across at her, and, 
coming nearer, kissed her hand. 

“Madame Vraumont, you help me to remem- 
ber something more, merely that it may not yet be 
too late to ask the presence of those gentlemen. 
What say you, Don Zanalta? Would it please 


AN EVENING WITH MONSIEUR LAMORT 87 


you, or think you a messenger could find them — 
the ‘chevalier’ and ‘Constante’ — address, no- 
where?” 

“To be sure, and the thought is a kind one. 
Through Captain Nirosse they can be found in 
less than half an hour; and, if they are disposed, 
we can make their first evening a merry one — if 
indeed they do not prove to be gray-heads who 
have forsworn merriment.” 

“For my part, I much fear that is just what you 
will find,” sighed Madame Villette. 

“Well, whether gray or golden, we will send 
the message. Don Zanalta, will you word it?” 
And Monsieur Lamort signaled a slave, who 
stepped forward. 

“ Sebastian, you know where the sailor cap- 
tains are to be found when ashore?” 

“Yes, master, where many are; and one can 
always tell where another may be.” 

“Good! Go there; ask for Captain Nirosse of 
the French ship Celestine, just arrived in the har- 
bor. Give to him the letter, and conduct here the 
gentlemen to whom he may command you. Take 
carriage, and be swift.” 

“Yes, master.” 

Don Zanalta came forward with the note he had 
written and passed it to his host for approval. 

“Very good. Surely, if they are disposed to be 
on good terms with Orleans, they can not resist 
the courtesy of your words; and as there is yet 


88 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


room for another name, I shall add that of Victor 
Lamorf/’ 

''Oh, thank you, monsieur. You are very gra- 
cious.’' 

"Not at all. Your guests are welcome under 
my roof, and as this is the anniversary of my own 
meeting with the gentlemen here, why not cele- 
brate it more fully by gathering in other new- 
comers to your shores? And, by the way, Za- 
nalta, speaking of the gentlemen whom we hope 
Sebastian will bring back; if they are the ones I 
met this evening I have special cause to remem- 
ber the occasion, because of some one who was 
there, and who belongs to you.” 

"Ah! an adventure; pray tell us!” 

"Only a quarrel for a knife at the door of a 
wineshop. Two men struggled, yet their com- 
rades were so close no peacemaker could ap- 
proach. I was about to make an attempt to push 
through and separate them — one looked a mere 
boy — when a slave of yours bade me wait, 
stepped before me, reached them as though she 
had been a spirit, and flung high in the air the 
knife for which they fought, before the combat- 
ants realized who had secured it. A very strange 
woman for a black, but she tried to do me a 
service there. I even feel tempted to ofifer you 
fair returns for her if at any time you should 
choose to part with her. I asked her name. She 
said Venda.” 

" Ah ! that black witch ! ” broke in Senora 


AN EVENING WITH MONSIEUR LAMORT 89 


Mercedes, who had drawn near and heard the last 
words ; ‘‘ well might she serve you, who art a sol- 
dier and a brave commander of your own sea- 
vessel, but to a lady she is very wearing with her 
silence and her tricks of witchery with which she 
affrights the other slaves. Diego, I tell you 
plainly none other will ever bid for her, and since 
you yourself love her but little — though you 
never will chide her — I say, take Monsieur La- 
mort at his word.’’ 

Don Zanalta sent one angered glance at her, 
but his smile came quickly again. 

'' Your suggestion has at least one earnest ad- 
vocate in my own household,” he said, carelessly, 
to Monsieur Lamort, ''but I fancy the recom- 
mendation my sister-in-law gives with it will not 
strengthen your intent to purchase.” 

"On the contrary, those voudous, as they are 
called, are an interesting study to me ; and is she 
one ? I would find it easy to believe, for the knife 
she threw in the air was not to be seen again.” 

" Oh, we have heard many tales of her,” agreed 
one of the ladies. " She is a strange creature, but 
she does no ill.” 

" Except to my aunt’s nerves,” smiled Madame 
Villette. "She is a most capable woman, but 
silent and dreamy while the other blacks sing 
songs and dance dances. I have no dislike for 
her, though I certainly would be glad if she was 
taken away, simply because of the antipathy my 
aunt feels for her.” 


90 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


Zanalta heard the words, and while the others 
chattered of Venda and her strange ways, he was 
thinking quickly: 

''Well, why not? Tlje money would come 
handy. Those games with that infernal Rochelle 
have made a dilf erence with me. And, after all — 
seventeen years — seventeen years I have kept her 
and feared her; yes, curse her! that’s the word, 
feared her. And all for what? She dare not 
speak ; reason tells me that. Then why hesitate ? 
By the saints I my mind is settled on it ; she shall 
go.” 

It seemed as though Monsieur Lamort as well 
as Venda was gifted with occult powers, for just 
at the finish of Zanalta’s reasoning he came for- 
ward smiling, as though he knew the result. 

"Well, Don Zanalta, is the voudou to weave 
her spells in my house instead of yours?” he 
asked, nonchalantly. "If so, name the amount, 
and ril free Senora Zanalta from her hHe noire” 

"Yes” — and Don Diego spoke with haste of 
one who was afraid he might repent — '‘yes; it 
is a strange sale and conducted quickly. I never 
meant to sell her, though I have had many a war 
in the house because of her. But she may amuse 
you. She is strange — some say mad — so I give 
you warning; but she will work well. Yes, she 
can be very useful, if she chooses, and she is yours 
at your word.” 

Victor Lamort bowed to the agreement. "I 
will have an article drawn up at any time, to- 


AN EVENING WITH MONSIEUR LAMORT 91 


night as well as another. I fancy her looks. She 
will make a strange picture in the house. I never 
saw so young a negress with white hair.’’ 

'' It is because of that the other slaves call her 
devil-marked. But, pardon me, is that not the 
return of your carriage?” 

For wheels had just rolled over the shell-lined 
drive, and Zanalta had scarcely spoken when Se- 
bastian announced, ''Master Chevalier Delogne, 
Master Constante Raynel,” and Victor Lamort 
went forward to greet the strangers. 

"It is as I fancied — you do not come to my 
house as strangers, gentlemen, for have we not 
met earlier this evening ? And here is Don Za- 
nalta. It is a pleasure to me that you meet under 
my roof.” And Maurice Delogne found himself 
looking again into the eyes of the man who had 
attracted him so strongly but a short time before, 
and Constante drew a long breath of pure delight 
at the semi-barbaric surroundings. 

"Ah, messieurs, for a year and a day am I 
your bond-slave in payment for this evening’s 
glimpse of paradise. See ! I bend my neck for 
the yoke — a year and a day!” 

Don Zanalta liked more thoroughly the light 
chatter of the artist than the more level-eyed 
youth, who spoke graciously but with less ex- 
travagance. 

"He is but a day in your land,” smiled De- 
logne, warningly; "and lest you, not knowing, 
take him at his word, let me confess that he is 


92 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


vassal to so many impulses that I should fear to 
vouch for his faithfulness to one/’ 

‘'Is not my name Constante?” 

“Would it have been had they waited a few 
years for your christening? But aside from this 
badinage, gentlemen, pray believe that we feel 
deeply the kindness you have been pleased to 
show us. To strangers in a strange land, a hand 
that welcomes means so much.” 

“We have all learned that lesson on these 
shores. Monsieur Chevalier,” assented Lamort. 
“ So few of us were born here that we have all 
been strangers in the land on some day of our 
lives. We but give to you from Orleans that 
which Orleans has granted to us, and that which 
no doubt you yourself will give in the future to 
a later comer. But come, I would like to have 
you meet others of my guests, and you see they 
have followed the music and left my palm-room.” 

Constante was at the same moment exchanging 
bows with Villeneuve, and a little later, when 
these two were left alone for a space, they pro- 
ceeded, after the fashion of youth, to become at 
once well acquainted. 

“ My faith, monsieur, do you all live like princes 
in this romantic land of exile? Is our host the 
reigning sovereign?” 

“Oh, no; though perhaps an heir apparent — 
who knows ? He is, they say, a power beside the 
throne here, if not behind it ; at least one thought 
well of, and deserving of it all. There was a time 


AN EVENING WITH MONSIEUR LAMORT 93 


in this colony when people of France were not in 
high favor ; but it is said that Victor Lamort has 
swept away every lingering prejudice in the space 
of three years. To be of the mother church and 
of sufficient age and intelligence are all the requi- 
sites to position here now. French and Spanish 
alike control the town and guard against their 
common enemy, the English.’' 

“ Ah ! then the spirit of war is abroad here as 
well as on the shores of Europe?” 

“Well — yes — but whispers, whispers only. 
The English smugglers are causing much trouble 
slipping into our ports on every thin-veiled ex- 
cuse. You see our civilized neighbors cause us 
more trouble than the savage people.” 

Constante’s eyes were busy noting the strange 
feathery foliage of palms, and catching now and 
then glimpses of women’s dresses through the 
green. 

“ By my own vision of things you seem to have 
few troubles here beyond finding the days long 
enough for your pleasures, and you certainly have 
nymphs of the tropics to assist you. There goes 
a face that is enchanting. See — the one looking 
this way, moving there beside the lady with the 
— hum ! ahem! — the bridal-veil over her tresses.” 

Villeneuve smiled at the enthusiasm of the 
stranger, a little pleased to see that Orleans had 
beauty remarkable even, compared with beauty 
of the French court. 

“ Ah, there is golden treasure as well as bright 


94 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


eyes in that group, Monsieur Raynel. It is Ma- 
dame Villette, the wealthiest widow in the prov- 
ince — slaves of her own by the hundred, and ves- 
sels of her own on the waters. The other is her 
relative, Sehora Mercedes Zanalta. A good old 
Spanish name is hers ; but, alas ! she has no gold 
to gild it.'* 

“Alas!” echoed Constante, unconsciously; for 
in his own mind he knew at once it was the un- 
comely old woman who was the wealthy widow, 
and it was the childish-faced sylph who had only 
the ancient lineage — did not the fates always 
divide favors in just that miserable way? And 
yet how charming was that person of the un- 
gilded lineage! 

And at the first opportunity he did a thing very 
remarkable for Constante. He did not seek pre- 
sentation, but slipped ofif alone where the palms 
were thick, and where he could see the entire 
room, and couples saluting each other in stateliest 
fashion, with many a gracious curve of body and 
many an arch erecting of proud head. And his 
eyes would wander ever to the dainty grace of 
that figure in the rose-color and silver tissue, and 
from her white unjeweled throat he would glance 
toward the more matured charms of Dona Mer- 
cedes, and note the gemmed buckles glinting as 
she moved. 

And then he would sigh like a furnace, and as- 
sure himself for the hundredth time that he had 
met fate ; and that it was very hard, in the face of 


AN EVENING WITH MONSIEUR LAMORT 95 


his late decision to wed wealth, that he should 
meet on the first threshold he crossed a being to 
tempt him from every wise decision he had ever 
made. The temptation of St. Anthony — bah! it 
was trifling, he knew, compared with his own. 

So he assured himself. He was in his imagina- 
tion striving to renounce the one and offer his 
hand to the other, yet had never spoken to either 
of them in his life! 

Oh, love! love! that spirit binding us with a 
chain of glances from bright eyes, and bringing to 
us glimmers of knowledge deeper than all the phil- 
osophies. A wild folly when it is another man the 
madness touches, but a souks tragedy when it 
touches ourselves. 

How many a heart lives more fully in visions of 
what might be than in the life men call the real ! 

So if jovial Constante chose for a space to let 
his thoughts wander in the strange paths of im- 
agination — well, he was not the first beggar to 
claim riches from such a source. To be sure, he 
would marry the widow, despite his sighs for that 
lovely kinswoman, for Monsieur Raynel was a 
gentleman of thrifty instincts. Yet, just for the 
present, ere he had addressed either, how com- 
forting to fancy that the beauty in rose-color 
owned the slaves and the ships, and that he, Con- 
stante, was commander of all ! 

And a sigh, earnest as any Romeo’s, touched 
the palms because of the sweetness within vision, 
but toward which he must never reach. 


96 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


And he courageously turned his eyes to the 
more matured dame of the golden buckles. There, 
he knew, was the path for him. Had not he asked 
for that? Well, when the saints are kind is it not 
wise to accept what they .send? Assuredly. 

Constante had devoted this five minutes of his 
life to a bit of serious contemplation, and arose 
from it with the grim design of being presented to 
that widow within the earliest time possible, and 
then — well, trust to Dame Fortune and youth's 
audacity. 

Maurice, who met him a few moments later, 
looked at him wonderingly. It was a strange 
thing for Constante to creep thus modestly from 
sight, especially if there were ladies to whom to 
pay court. 

‘‘ What ! you, Constante Raynel, alone there in 
the garden when all this feast of beauty is spread 
before your eyes? Why, sir; does it mean that 
you have closed your book of French folly, and 
commence here to peruse the leaves of the New 
World's wisdom? You are certainly courageous 
to commence a reform in the midst of such temp- 
tations. Did you note the ladies to whom I spoke 
just now? They are most gracious, and Madame 
Villette has commissioned me to present you." 

''Madame Villette?" And Raynel arose with a 
resigned air and went to meet his fate. 

He met first the entrancing eyes of Ninon. 
Heavens ! she was looking at him — at him out of 


AN EVENING WITH MONSIEUR LAMORT 97 


all the room, and looking at him exactly as if there 
was not another man within a mile. 

She is adorable,’' he muttered to himself, and 
immediately added, “ Don’t be a fool, Raynel.” 

Then he heard the names Sehora Zanalta, 
Madame Villette, and he was bowing to two la- 
dies, and trying, for his own soul’s sake, to avoid 
the glances of the prettiest. He offered his arm to 
the veil-bedecked lady while he tried vainly to 
comfort his heart by gazing on those diamond 
buckles. 

But if you are young, need I tell how lightly 
diamonds weigh when one longs instead for the 
touch of a loved hand ? And if you are old — well, 
the old have memories. 

So Constante, on his newly adopted path of 
wisdom, walked on thorns, and never came so 
near to hating Maurice as when that gallant led 
the one adorable into the place of the feast and 
seated himself at her side, wickedly thoughtless 
as to his comrade and the dowager. 

But Ninon was not so careless. Her eyes were 
big with wonder as she noted the devoted atten- 
tions won by her kinswoman from that handsome 
young stranger — for that he was handsome was 
a thing quickly decided by her. She even felt that 
her eyes must have betrayed to him her opinion 
when their glances met, and her face grew warm 
at the thought, for had he not turned deliberately 
from her and given his attention to Doha Mer- 
cedes ? Did he mean, then, to ignore the beauties 


98 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


of Orleans, and show his indifference by paying 
court to one of the antiques ? 

Ninon’s silvered slipper tapped the floor to em- 
phasize her own thoughts. Ah ! how she would 
like to teach that Monsieur Indifference one les- 
son! Just to bring that handsome head to her 
feet for once — one little minute. Of course she 
would laugh at him then, and dismiss him. Yes, 
she would teach him not to slight a lady who had 
so kindly suggested that he be presented. Ah, the 
ingrate! But how handsome he was, and what 
bright things he was saying to Senora Mercedes 
and Monsieur Villeneuve. 

And Madame Ninon Villette forgot the Cheva- 
lier Delogne who was beside her, and strained her 
ears to hear the words of the ingrate who would 
not look at her. 

Alas! Ninon; all sweethearts pray for her! 

But Maurice did not feel especially neglected, 
even though the lovely widow did note Con- 
stante’s words more than his own, for Monsieur 
Lamort was near enough for speech, and the 
younger man listened to his words with great in- 
terest. 

Some one was speaking of a ghostly craft seen 
by black sailors on the river but a short time be- 
fore — a phantom of the starlight, over which 
the masters were laughing. 

‘'Those are bad subjects in which to humor the 
blacks,” decided Monsieur Lamort ; “ they are so 
credulous, and one will frighten another, so that 


AN EVENING WITH MONSIEUR LAMORT 99 

in a short time a whole plantation will be panic- 
stricken. I strive to reason with them in such 
matters, and if that fails I try ridicule, I find 
they do not like to be laughed at.’’ 

'‘Then you think, of course, the return of the 
dead is a thing ridiculous?” asked Don Zanalta, 
with a degree of earnestness noticeable after the 
careless chatter. 

" I ? ” queried Monsieur Lamort. " Well, there 
is much to consider in that question. And did not 
the Son of Mary come back to be seen of man 
after the tomb was sealed ? Yet the blacks in their 
ignorance should not be given that knowledge; 
their minds are too childish to grasp the reasons 
for it.” 

" But I mean men of to-day, not of the past,” 
persisted Zanalta. " Suppose a man vows to him- 
self that he will return, and bends all his thoughts 
to that end, think you he could win the power? ” 

"To make such a vow a person must have an 
all-absorbing purpose, at least so it seems to me ; 
and whether or not he could gain that power 
would, I think, depend on whether or not that 
purpose was a thing just in the eyes of God.” 

Zanalta looked at him a moment, and then said, 
carelessly, "Well, I have heard sailors and sol- 
diers tell strange stories of those who return.” 

"And I too,” asserted his host; "but I fancy 
the ghost most men see is conscience. And if a 
shadow in the moonlight takes the form of a per- 
son who once lived, it is sure not to be a stranger. 


100 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


but one whom we have some time wronged/^ 

The wine-glass slipped from the fingers of 
Zanalta and broke on the white floor. The wine 
splashed and lay like a thin rivulet of blood at his 
feet. 

I am growing clumsy in my old age/' he said, 
and laughed; but in the same breath he added, 
The glass scratched my hand. It is a trifle, but 
wounds are not pleasant things to exhibit at table. 
Will you pardon me?" 

His host bowed assent, but watched him curi- 
ously as he arose. Monsieur Lamort had very 
sharp eyes, yet could detect no wound on the 
wrist, where the handkerchief was pressed 
quickly, and his gaze followed his guest, who dis- 
appeared amid the palms. 

prick of a pin is as annoying in time of peace 
as a sword-thrust in the heat of battle," he re- 
marked. 

But Colonel Durande, who sat near, looked 
across knowingly, and in a low tone said : 

Poor Diego encourages conversation on that 
theme, though I fancy he is never the happier for 
it. You see. Monsieur Lamort, there is a story, 
known to the older people here, a tragical story, 
in which he had a slight part — nothing to his dis- 
credit, you understand, only he was threatened 
with after-life vengeance by a murderer of this 
town whom his evidence sent to the galleys, or 
rather the mines ; and I really fancy he thinks of 
it at times and grows morbid." 


AN EVENING WITH MONSIEUR LAMORT 101 


‘‘Indeed! One can imagine Don Zanalta in 
any role rather than the tragical. He seems so 
in tune with everything that is bright and joyous.’' 

“You are right. But his memory plays him 
tricks, no doubt, as it does with us all at times. 
And it was really a very sad story. A lady of high 
degree stooped to be loved by one of the canaille, 
a shameful love affair, and the lady’s guardian 
was murdered by the lover one day in this very 
garden. Does not that interest you. Monsieur 
Lamort ? You are living on the stage of a former 
tragedy.” 

“ But what part did Don Zanalta play in it, if 
I may ask?” 

“ He was the friend of the murdered guardian, 
and saw the crime committed. More, the lady 
was intended by their families to be his wife ; so 
it was said, at least. But she died a recluse soon 
after the man was sentenced. Some say she went 
mad. Anyway, an aged relative removed her to 
a plantation near the Acadians, and she ended her 
life there. A sad story; and a girl so beautiful 
one can but wonder that evil would lurk in her 
mind.” 

“Yes; I heard a crime had been done here. The 
blacks speak of it, and shun one path when the 
dusk falls. But Don Zanalta said naught of it 
to me. You know I purchased the place from 
him.” 

“Yes, I remember. I was one of the judges at 
that trial, and remember also the settlement of the 


102 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


estates. You see, as I said before, Diego and Le 
Noyens, the murdered man, were close comrades. 
But Le Noyens lived wild and fast, and many 
purses of gold had Diego filled for him — some 
over the gaming-table, for Zanalta dearly loves 
the excitement of play. At any rate, when the end 
came it soon was known that Gaston had given 
mortgage to Diego for many acres and many 
slaves; and thus it was that Zanalta held this 
property until you took him at his word and made 
purchase of it.'’ 

In other parts of the room gay words and soft 
laughter sounded. Villeneuve was beside Ninon, 
and they were chatting with much spirit, both 
laughing a little when they looked at Senora 
Mercedes, who was rapidly growing as girlish as 
her attire under the attentions of the bronze- 
haired stranger whose tones were so caressing. 

And Maurice, freed from attendance on any of 
the fair ones, was pleased to listen to the story 
thus strangely started — a romance of these 
rooms where gay companions laughed. He had 
not expected to find romances in the new homes 
of Orleans. 

‘^And you were one of those who sentenced the 
criminal?" he asked, speaking to Colonel Du- 
rande. '' I always have felt — pardon me if I give 
ofifense — but I always have felt that, honorable 
as that position is, I should never wish to fill it. 
Suppose one should condemn innocent people — 
sentence them to death, perhaps, and learn, long 


AN EVENING WITH MONSIEUR LAMORT 103 


afterward, that it was unjust. I have read of 
such things.^’ 

‘'So have I,’' smiled the colonel; “we see such 
things in romances, but I have not yet met them 
in life. Yes, I helped to convict Basil de Bayarde, 
and the entire town thought he was lucky not to 
be executed instead of exiled. In fact, it was to 
the clemency of Diego Zanalta that he owed his 
life, for Zanalta opposed execution. Some of the 
people claimed he should be whipped, as a warn- 
ing to other aspiring rangers who might fancy a 
lady's love instead of seeking mates where they 
belong — among the canaille; but that favor was 
not paid to popular opinion, so he was not 
whipped, but only sent to the mines for life." 

“ De Bayarde ? " repeated Maurice, who seemed 
to have heard only the name — “De Bayarde? 
Pardon me, but in France that name is of the 
nobles, not of the people. Who was the man ? " 

“A ranger of the river, a player of the man- 
dolin, an Indian-fighter, and a conjurer in the 
game of love, since he bewitched the fairest lady 
of this province," answered Colonel Durande, 
lightly; “in fact, the sort of adventurer whose 
stories read so prettily when set to rhyme, but 
whom prosaic, respectable people ever avoid." 

Maurice laughed, and glanced from the colonel 
to his host. 

“I very much fear, then, that I am entering 
your Orleans under a cloud," he said; “for, gen- 
tlemen, I must confess that the only letter of 


104 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


introduction I have with me is from my aunt, the 
Marquise de Lescure, and is to an old friend of 
hers called De Bayarde/’ 

Both gentlemen showed their surprise, and the 
colonel looked frankly uncomfortable. Assuredly 
Chevalier Delogne was lacking in the tact of a 
politician. 

“ Our theme was unfortunate, Chevalier ; I am 
distressed that I may have made music unpleas- 
ant for you. I beg your pardon.’’ 

'' Nay, nay, Monsieur le Colonel,” returned the 
other, quickly; ''the coincidence of name is but a 
jest to laugh at, after all, for the man I seek is not 
named Basil, and if living he must be quite an old 
man now. His name is Hector — Hector de 
Bayarde.” 

"Was Hector,” said the colonel; "but that was 
many years ago, Chevalier — before you were 
born, no doubt, for he died during the insur- 
rection of ’68.” 

" Little wonder, then, that you failed to find his 
address,” remarked Monsieur Lamort. "And was 
he also an adventurer?” 

" On the contrary,” answered the colonel, with 
decision, " he was a soldier and a patriot. It was 
a name the Frenchmen here like to remember. 
Old men still like to speak of him as a martyr to a 
lost cause. The saints were good to him that he 
was not allowed to live through exile and impris- 
onment such as the others of that revolution en- 
dured. Only recently I was searching old records 


AN EVENING WITH MONSIEUR LAMORT 105 


of the French occupancy, and noticed his name 
and the list of properties confiscated by the Span- 
ish ruler, for you know all lands and slaves of the 
revolution leaders were added to the properties 
of the crown, and used at the pleasure of the gov- 
ernor-general/’ 

No, I was not aware of it; neither, I am sure, 
was my aunt the marquise. T have not yet ex- 
amined the papers intrusted to me, but know from 
her word that Monsieur de Bayarde was one 
whom she knew well in her youth ; more, that in 
some way she blamed herself for his exile, and 
even sent to him a sum of money through a friend, 
hoping that she would not be suspected as the 
giver. The money was given with the suggestion 
that he live as beseemed his station ; but his senses 
must have been keen, for he detected the plot, and 
wrote her he had purchased the estate, but for 
her, not for himself — or rather had taken it in 
his own name, and would forward the papers of 
transfer as soon as they could be executed. Well, 
the papers never reached the marquise; never- 
theless she is confident they were sent, for his 
word was given. But ships were few in those 
days — some were lost, and much that was valu- 
able went down, including, perhaps, De Bayarde's 
message. And then there was a marquis at that 
time, and rumor has it that he was most watchful 
of his fair bride, and of any message that came 
near her ; so who knows ? I am here to please my 
aunt, and whether I find him or no, I am to 


106 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


remain a while and study the new land and my 
fitness for it. I confess I feel that I am simply 
searching for the sequel to an old lady's romance, 
but so charming an old lady that I am quite will- 
ing to swear myself her knight. And, in truth, 
had I been in De Bayarde's shoes, I should have 
stolen her in her youth, and not crossed the seas 
alone; for she was only a betrothed at that time, 
and not a wife." 

‘‘ I feel like an audience of one, for whom you 
and Colonel Durandc are reading romances of the 
past this evening," said their host, who seemed 
closely interested in Maurice and his mission. 

But is it not strange that through all these years 
the marquise should never have learned of his 
death ? " 

“ Scarcely; her life has been that of a nun ever 
since I remember. Only this past year, and at my 
entreaty, did she return to court. But, monsieur, 
I beg many pardons for thus filling your evening 
with my family history. I scarce know how it 
began, but I am sure it will end with your other 
guests crying out against my selfishness." 

''Only from Madame Villette must we crave 
grace," answered Monsieur Lamort. "All the 
rest are too far away to be afifected by our with- 
drawal from their gaiety. Madame, will you par- 
don us for daring to spend five minutes talking of 
a lady across the seas when you yourself are 
within hearing? We are very humble, and willing 


AN EVENING WITH MONSIEUR LAMORT 107 


to drink any number of glasses to your health, if 
you will but take us into favor once more.” 

Ninon nodded, and smiled her assent, inwardly 
thinking, '‘A toast — then of course he must look 
this way for an instant, and I will seem not to 
know he is in the room.” 

And Monsieur Lamort arose and asked his 
guests to drink with him to the health and hap- 
piness of Ninon — Madame Villette; and the 
readiness of all was shown by the smiles directed 
to charming Ninon. 

There was only one exception. The exception 
was Monsieur Raynel, who, to be sure, met his 
host^s proposition with a smile, but, strangely 
enough, looked into the eyes of Sehora Mercedes 
when he lifted his glass, and drained it as though 
it were a love-potion longed for eagerly. 

And in truth poor Constante was having a glo- 
rious hour of it, and dared not let his glances wan- 
der lest they should never come back to linger on 
the owner of those uncounted acres. 

''And you are an artist ? ” she asked, with the 
most flattering surprise. "Ah, monsieur, you 
know not to what a desert you have come ! Art ? 
— the word is forgotten here by any who ever 
knew its meaning. But I, well, I am from Madrid, 
and what need to tell you, an art lover, of the 
masterpieces there on which I used to gaze? I 
have missed them sadly here, and can promise you 
the sympathy of one soul in this town, where — 


108 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


alas that it should be so! — few people care for 
aught but wealth/’ 

'' Sad, indeed, is it to see humanity waste its en- 
ergies in the pursuit of dross,” agreed Constante, 
with the most spirituelle expression his face was 
capable of. It is much to be lamented.” 

“Well may you say that, my dear Monsieur 
Raynel. Indeed your whole manner of conver- 
sation betrays you to be a gentleman of most ex- 
emplary thought. Believe me, I am indeed grati- 
fied to have made your acquaintance, and trust 
we may continue it in my own house, where you 
will be welcomed most heartily.” 

“Ah, madame, you dazzle me with your kind- 
ness. What return can a poor artist make for the 
exquisite pleasure you have given me ? To be met 
with sympathy for my work on the very threshold 
of my life here — sympathy from a lady — such a 
lady ! Madame, pardon me if I express poorly my 
thanks; but be sure your kind invitation will be 
most gratefully accepted.” 

“ I shall look forward, then, to many interesting 
discussions on your chosen art. We possess some 
examples of portrait-work that are not bad, but 
nothing new, nothing of my own, in fact, since 
my marriage, though I have several times con- 
templated having one made.” 

“Ah, madame!” and Constante looked at her, 
but his voice, or his conscience, could take him no 
farther — his meaning was interpreted by a sigh. 

“Well, well, we will see,” remarked Dona 


AN EVENING WITH MONSIEUR LAMORT 109 


V 


Mercedes, coquettishly, and showed by the half- 
promise that the language of sighs was not for- 
gotten by her. ''And our church here needs sadly 
the hand of an artist. In fact, we have spoken 
more than once of sending to Spain for one. So 
it may be of substantial interest to you to call 
when your leisure will permit. My brother-in- 
law, Don Zanalta, whom you have met, has much 
power in such decisions here, and I will see that 
he is interested.” 

"Dear lady,” and Monsieur Raynehs tones 
were infinitely caressing, " it has been said that 
out of the fullness of the heart the mouth speak- 
eth. I turn infidel to that from this night, for to 
my lips will come no words fit to thank you.” 

And then the rascal gave silent thanks to the 
saints because the guests were dispersing from 
the table, and he could betake himself from the 
widow’s side for a few blessed minutes — a lib- 
erty of which he took quick advantage, and found 
himself a little later beside Maurice, attempting 
a cigarette, and feeling as tired as a man who has 
run a long race. 

"Well?” queried his friend, looking at him 
with a smile and speaking in the tone that asks, 
"How is the world treating you?” 

In fact, he himself had met so many things of 
interest that he had well-nigh lost sight of Con- 
stante. But that worthy was not disposed to be 
confidential. He scowled slightly at his ques- 
tioner, and gripped the cigarette until it was 


110 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


twisted past repair. In fact, the mercenary path 
he had chosen seemed filled with every conceiv- 
able annoyance ; and this was only the beginning 

— one short hour borrowed from the paradise he 
assured himself he would seek ere long with the 
gracious widow. For had she not shown by her 
very flattering attention that no advance of his 
would be presumption ? He sighed even while he 
congratulated himself. 

‘‘You are a fool, a hopeless fool, Constante,’’ 
he growled to himself. “ Is it not what you have 
asked for — money, wealth to last you all your 
life, leisure with which to enjoy every gift of glo- 
rious existence? And the owner of it ready to 
drop at your touch like a ripe peach — ugh! — 
overripe! That maddening girl with the eyes! 

— how is it her concern? Why must I feel her 
looking at me, even though I do not see her? 
And to look at me, too, with that pretty curl of 
the lip — the insolence of it! — but the charm of 
it ! Suppose I should build a little cabin, such as 
I could aflFord, and ask that portionless mademoi- 
selle to enter it with me ? Constante, my boy, you 
are mad, quite mad. Heretofore, however wild 
your plans may have been, the vision of marriage 
has never entered into them. It is the free air of 
this land getting into your brain like wine, but it 
won’t do, it won’t do. The common-sense thing 
for you, Constante, is to ask the widow to go into 
church some fine morning, and thus settle your- 
self for life. That will not fulfill your vision of 


AN EVENING WITH MONSIEUR LAMORT 111 


marriage, perhaps, but it will be a very sensible 
arrangement. And those eyes? Ah, well, they 
will serve for a Madonna in the church I am to 
adorn.’' 

And a few moments later Delogne missed him 
again, and found time, in the midst of his pleas- 
ures, to wonder what contrary wind had struck 
Const ante? To be sure, he was always a fellow 
of whims, but not whims that left him silent and 
thoughtful where others were gay. 

But Maurice had pleasant things of his own 
interest to consider, and it was small wonder if he 
soon forgot his friend’s unusual manner, for 
Monsieur Lamort had said, when they found 
themselves alone: 

“Come to me to-morrow, my dear Chevalier, 
and it may be I can help you to unravel this tan- 
gled maze to which you are trying to find the 
clue. At any rate, if you will so far honor me as 
to trust me with the letters, I will advise you to 
the best of my ability. In fact, I confess I feel an 
interest in your welfare, and as it may be in my 
power to serve you, I beg that you will at any 
time come to me freely. No, do not thank me. 
You are of French blood; so am I. That alone is 
a bond on a strange shore ; and you will no doubt 
often hear my house spoken of as 'the place of 
exiles.’ So you will be here to-morrow? That 
is well.” 

And Maurice congratulated himself that he had 
landed in America under a lucky star, for his 

8 


112 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


meetings had been most successful. And that 
one meeting down there by the hospital near the 
river, and the brave yet childish eyes of that girl ? 
He had but to close his own to see them yet. They 
had drifted between him and many another face 
that evening. 

But in the midst of his selfish reverie he heard 
near by the faint cry of a woman. The musicians 
were playing. No one else seemed to note it, and 
he turned quickly toward the palms from which 
the sound came. 

But swift as he was, another was more swift, 
and that other was Constante. Where he came 
from so quickly was a mystery, but he was there ; 
in his arms was a slight rose-draped figure and at 
his feet a sputtering candle smoldered in its frills 
of paper, now ashes. A smell of burnt silk was 
in the air, and one wing-like sleeve was gone from 
Madame Ninon’s gown. 

And the closeness of that embrace was ex- 
plained by the lady’s danger, for without doubt 
the unceremonious grasp had smothered the blaz- 
ing sleeve, and perhaps averted a very serious ac- 
cident. 

But at the voice of Maurice the two chief actors 
in the little drama drew apart like a couple of cul- 
prits, Constante white as a sheet, but Madame 
Villette pink as the gown she wore. 

— I was frightened, monsieur. I — am so 
sorry to have troubled you,” she at last succeeded 
in saying, but with her eyes on the floor. 



In his arms was a slight, rose-draped figure 






AN EVENING WITH MONSIEUR LAxMORT 113 


'' I beg pardon, mademoiselle, for approaching 
you so roughly,’’ murmured Constante, meekly, 
his usual audacious gaze averted. He was so 
angry with himself because his voice trembled, 
and he knew that his face was pale ; and there was 
Maurice, too — Maurice looking at him in won- 
der. Did it not seem as though the very devils 
were in league against him? And his tongue 
seemed tied fast. 

But as Maurice was the only one whose wits 
were under control, it was he who offered his arm 
to Madame Ninon. 

'' It is most natural you should be frightened,” 
he assured her. “ Permit me to conduct you to a 
seat. Were you at all burned? Can I be of any 
service to you ? ” 

'' No, no. I have recovered — quite. The wind 
but blew the gauze of my sleeve across the chande- 
lier. It was quick flame, so quick it did not scorch 
me, and then your friend arrived; and I am dis- 
tressed, monsieur — I am indeed. Were his hands 
not burned? Pray go and see — do not trouble 
any one about me. I am heartily glad the others 
did not hear my cry. I will await you here, if 
you will but learn if he is hurt.” 

‘‘Plurt?” repeated Constante when Maurice 
questioned him. Then he opened his hands, looked 
at them as if for the first time, picked from his 
sleeve a shred of silk tissue and retained it in his 
fingers. '' Hurt? No ! a bit scorched, but that is 
all. What concern had she with the candles that 
8 


114 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


she must festoon them with her draperies? Sacre! 
There must be an especial saint in these parts to 
look after the simple/' 

''Fie! That is by no means a gallant speech, 
my friend. Come and let her see you are not in- 
jured." 

"I? Not a step will I budge. She will find 
plenty to offer sympathy without my adding to 
the list. I am going to the gardens." 

And out to the lawn he went, and no words 
from his friend could prevent him or gain a rea- 
son for his whims ; but after a space of loneliness 
there, and more quiet thought than Constante 
generally gave any question, the finale of his self- 
argument was reached, by words not loud, but 
evidently earnest. 

And the words were, "To the devil may go 
the diamond buckles ! " 

And having confided that statement to himself, 
he drew a long breath, as of a man who lets fall a 
heavy load by the roadside, and walks on without 
it, free. 

When he saw her again she was seated de- 
murely between Maurice and Colonel Durande. 
Over her shoulders lay a shawl of lace, and the 
burnt sleeve was never missed ; the serenity of the 
evening had not been disturbed by the others 
hearing of her danger. 

And across the room sat the lady of the dia- 
mond buckles. He was delighted to observe that 


AN EVENING WITH MONSIEUR LAMORT 115 


she was circled by dowagers, and that no one 
could be expected to approach. 

He again felt Ninon’s eyes on him. Ah, if she 
knew he had meant to have those diamond buck- 
les ! How grotesque everything was ! 

He approached Monsieur Lamort and Don 
Zanalta ; the latter was laughing, and held a paper 
in his hand. 

‘‘Yes, it is all satisfactory, and a good busi- 
ness for us both, I suspect,” he was saying. 
“ Monsieur Raynel, we may ask you to be witness 
to a swift bargain we have made this night — a 
droll thing to do at a feast, but why not?” 

“And you say she can dance, this very peculiar 
slave?” asked Monsieur Lamort; but the other 
shrugged his shoulders. 

“ Ninon says so — I have never seen her ; but it 
is no doubt simply extravagant postures such as 
the Africans use before their idols in their own 
land. Yet if she were here she should show you. 
It would be an amusing thing, at least, to see her, 
and a novelty for the ladies.” 

“Indeed, yes; we should have thought of it 
sooner. There are so few diversions or amuse- 
ments in this town. Would she were here ! ” 

And Constante nearly fell over a great vase of 
blossoms when close to him a voice said : 

“ Do you want me, master ? ” 

She came through the curtains of the low win- 
dow and stood before them — Venda. Her dress 
differed from that of the day. It was all 


116 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


white; of the coarse linen, it is true, but very 
white. Her anklets and necklets glinted against 
the brown skin ; her feet bore sandals bound with 
white, and about her waist was a girdle of snake- 
skin. 

She stood there impassive as a statue, not look- 
ing at Zanalta ; but he moved a step farther from 
her, and clinched his fingers nervously. She was 
always a ghost to him. 

“Your Mistress Ninon says you dance well, 
Venda,'’ said Monsieur Lamort, kindly. “Your 
master has oflfered to sell you to me; will you 
dance for my guests in my house ? 

“If Venda may speak to the music-players — 
yes, master.” 

“ As you please. Tell them what you want, and 
then commence.” 

She did so. Two of them, a violin player and 
a guitar player, came forward with her down the 
room to a sing-song cadence that was no tune, yet 
the motion to it was rhythmical. And those blacks 
who swayed down the room in advance of her 
until they reached the center, separated that she 
might go first. Had they all learned together that 
same chorus of motion in some strange pagan 
ceremony ? Had they been of those whom she had 
boasted of buying and selling in her own land? 
For they looked proud as they touched the strings 
to the weird cadence and glanced at each other. 

And the dance? Well, it was not such as the 
blacks dance together on the threshing-floors or 


AN EVENING WITH MONSIEUR LAMORT 117 

in the yards of their cabins when the moon comes 
up. There was the semi-oriental obeisance to 
things unseen, but on which her eyes appeared to 
rest. There was a crooning sound from her lips 
as she swayed backward and forward, with 
eyes half-closed, as one who charms and draws to 
her a thing unwilling. There was a call triumph- 
ant as she leaped forward with hand outstretched 
to claim a victory ; and then, as though holding an 
imaginary hand, she danced — a dance with the 
writhing grace of a serpent through every move- 
ment; the quick dart to right, to left, and then 
the quick curl of the body; the quick motion of 
the head thrown back as if for kisses; and ever 
that one hand poised as though held by one who 
danced unseen beside her. Then the touch on 
the guitar grew swifter, stronger ; on the strings 
of the violin more fierce and fast ; the waving arms 
and lithe body whirled with the abandon of mad- 
ness before the astonished guests. Then there 
was a final cry of the music — a '‘hone!’’ — from 
the players, and Venda stood one instant straight 
as a cypress-tree before them, and then bent low 
to the master of the house. 

"Did I not tell you?” asked Senora Mercedes 
of her neighbor. " She dances with the devil for 
a mate, for what human thing could move alone 
like that? Is it any wonder that I dread her in 
the house?” 

And, indeed, the lady found many another to 
sympathize with her in that notion, for one sorely 


118 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


repented that medicine for rheumatism had been 
obtained from that same slave to cure a cousin of 
hers. To be sure, the cousin grew well and sound 
from it, but who was to tell that the evil one had 
not a claim on his soul for that cure? 

And each asked the other if she had seen any 
feature oi that shadow dancing beside the witch ; 
and one was found who fancied she saw the hand 
Venda clasped; another was sure there was the 
shade of two bodies at Venda’s feet; and all shiv- 
ered a little, and were glad when the more ration- 
al music called the white dancers, who one by one 
drifted away from the corner where the slave 
stood. 

But Monsieur Lamort looked at her curiously, 
though kindly. 

“Well, you have done well, though strangely,” 
he said, and then turned to Don Zanalta, whose 
face showed wonder, uncertainty, and some com- 
plex feeling that made his hands clinch. “So, 
Don Zanalta, now that she is here, and has danced 
so bravely for my guests, is she to remain in my 
house ? The bargain, as you said, is a quick one, 
so why not conclude it ? The paper is ready ; shall 
we sign ? ” 

Zanalta threw back his head as though to shake 
away some unpleasant thought. 

“ Why not ? ’’ he asked. “ Monsieur Raynel, will 
you witness this?” 

“ My purse, Sebastian,” said Monsieur Lamort ; 
and directly it was placed, heavy and clinking, on 



She swayed backward and forward, with eyes half closed 




AN EVENING WITH MONSIEUR LAMORT 119 


the table. A sum was counted, that stood in little 
gold columns side by side, and on which Venda's 
eyes rested, while her hand crept to her throat as 
if to choke back a sound that arose there. 

Don Zanalta looked at the gold, and stepping 
forward took the pen Sebastian held ready. \Vrit- 
ing his name, he gave the pen to Constante, who 
signed as a witness, but kept respectful distance 
from the creature purchased. As a product of civ- 
ilization, he did not quite feel comfortable near 
this thing from the jungles, who danced, but with- 
out mirth, like a prisoner loosed from the inferno. 

And as he moved away the creature crept near- 
er Monsieur Lamort. As the gold-pieces clinked 
one against the other she dropped to her knees, 
and her lips touched his hand. He had not noticed 
her, and the touch startled him. He looked down 
quickly, she must have thought angrily, for she 
raised her hand as though in pleading. 

Master ! it is only that I hear for the first time 
the sound of gold paid for me. Venda was never 
before bought with money ; but she kneels to say 
it is music in her ears, because now for all her 
life she may call you master.’’ 

Monsieur Lamort glanced at the strange, 
whimsical creature with a smile, and he looked 
across at Zanalta, expecting to see him amused 
also at the demonstrative speech; but there was 
no amusement on the Spaniard’s face. 

He was glaring at his lately sold slave as though 
to compel her to look up and see the threatening. 


120 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


unspoken something in his eyes. Monsieur La- 
mort did not understand in the least what that 
something was, though he instinctively felt the 
savageness of it, and dropping his hand on the 
woman's white hair he looked questioninglv at 
Zanalta. 

But the Don quickly recovered himself, swept 
the last gold-piece into his pocket, and bowing as 
one who ends a discussion, he followed Constante, 
who was nearing the dancers. A certain lace- 
draped form there drew that young man's atten- 
tion in a manner most distracting. And in the 
stately music of the minuet all seemed to forget 
the wild, dark dancer, who knelt near the palms, 
speechless, at the feet of her new master. 


CHAPTER VI 

THE NEXT MORNING 

The day was yet young when Maurice and 
Constante bade each other good-morning after 
their first sleep in the new land. Up from the 
slow-moving river came a breath of the sea, and 
beyond its silvered land-line quivered the green of 
the willows. 

'^How little we fancied that this exile would 
lead us amid scenes so oriental as that of last 
night," remarked Maurice, lazily arousing him- 


THE NEXT MORNING 


121 


self from visions of palms and beauty. ‘‘But, Con- 
stante, I would give a ring off my finger to know 
what changed your nature in Monsieur Lamort's 
house. Why, sir, I had to tax my ingenuity more 
than once to excuse your lack of appreciation of 
the beauty about you. I never imagined you could 
be so indifferent.’’ 

Indifferent ! Constante looked at him with eyes 
that had not slept for one moment of the dying 
night or the growing dawn. What meager gain 
sleep would be if in exchange he gave up those 
waking dreams conjured by two appealing brown 
eyes and one quick, smothering embrace there in 
the garden of palms ! 

So Constante had kept that which was sweetest 
to him, and made no reply to the badinage of his 
friend. His thoughts were concentrated on the 
fact that in six hours he might possibly risk the 
consternation of the Zanalta household and call, 
as the dowager had made request. To be sure 
they would all wonder at his haste, but in the cause 
of art — ah! that thought was a veritable inspira- 
tion. In the service of art one dare be as eccentric 
as pleases oneself. 

Therefore, in exactly six hours by the clock he 
would venture across the threshold where the 
beautiful one of the ancient name resided. To be 
sure he would have to see the lady of the diamonds 
first, and to be sure he would have to tell many 
curious tales to excuse a call at breakfast-time; 
but what mattered all that if in recompense he 


122 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


could see one white hand through a lattice, or 
meet again those mutinous, wondering brown 
eyes? 

The chevalier glanced at him covertly several 
times during their preparations for the street. For 
the first time he found Constante a closed book, 
a surly, frowning person one moment and a 
dreamy, smiling one the next, but never a word. 

Well,’’ said his friend at last, if you will not 
speak, are you able to listen ? I have been looking 
over the letter of my aunt the marquise — heaven 
be good to her ! — but, much as I love her, the let- 
ter does not make me happy. Oh, these plots and 
damnable intrigues of the court ! ” 

''Hist!” and Constante turned with uplifted 
hand. "Be wary, and less loud with your free 
speech. Walls may have ears in this land as in 
the old; and if you should care to return to 
France, it is as well not to have treason to answer 
for.” 

"Treason! Never to France, but to the shift- 
ing, vacillating principles of administration. Who 
can swear fealty to that which can not assure it- 
self of its right or its stanchness ? The ministers 
are changed as one changes his coat, and each 
new one has his own little personal ends to secure, 
let who will suffer. But that I — that my name 
— ah!” 

"What do you mean?” 

"Read that. It is infamous.” 


THE NEXT MORNING 


123 


Constante took the letter, a very long one, and 
read the sheet indicated : 

' My dear one — my son — for you are as a son 
to my heart — I ask your pardon for thus sending 
you from me in ignorance of my reason. I fear 
you will blame me for making you seem like a 
coward in the eyes of others ; but be sure I would 
never have sent you from a battle where the con- 
test was fair. Listen, and forgive me because of 
my love ; and I hold you to your promise to remain 
where you are until I ask your return, or until the 
five years have passed. 

‘‘‘Maurice, none knows more clearly than I 
that you have nothing to blush for in the friend- 
ship of Madame la Princess; but it is none the 
less true that jealous eyes are on her. She is not 
one to be influenced by either husband or courtiers 
from her ideas of right; but — how shall I say it? 
— there are those high in power who have striven 
to draw her into plans where she could be of use 
to them. Her husband is one of them. His anger 
has led him to be jealous of some one — any one 
whom he fancies frustrates his plans by rendering 
her impassive to his influence. Maurice, because 
of her interest in you, he has chosen to mark you 
as chief enemy to his content. And the reason 
why I have been so strangely urgent in this mat- 
ter of your departure, why I send this letter to 
you only when I see from the shore that the sails 
are set — the reason for all this is that I fear 


124 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


hourly the gates of the Bastille will be closed on 
you ; and through the princess I know enough to be 
sure it would be useless to contend against the 
evidence they have arranged. It has been dis- 
closed to her as a threat of what will be done if 
she still combats them. She has asked time to 
consider; and closely watched as she is, has yet 
managed to tell me of the plot. Do not think of 
returning to help her; it would mean, perhaps, 
death to you both. She will always have help 
from me, and mine will not injure her in the eyes 
of her world, as yours would. Bear that in mind, 
my son. Any help you could offer would only 
strengthen their conspiracy against you. She 
knows you to be innocent, and sends her prayers 
to you; heed them, and be content.’ ” 

‘‘ Whew ! ” whistled Constante as he held the pa- 
per at arm’s-length ; “ that suggestion of the Bas- 
tille is quite near enough with the ocean between 
us. It is as I thought. Well, my friend, I con- 
gratulate you on getting away from it so easily.” 

'' Congratulate — pouf ! You do not then con- 
sider that I will be accused of flight — flight be- 
fore that figurehead of a princely house. Ah ! it 
is all ridiculous.” 

‘‘No” — and Constante spoke with a gravity 
unusual — “ there is nothing ridiculous in the risks 
taken by those two ladies to warn you. The mean- 
nesses of his royal highness are most extreme; 
but his wife comes of too powerful a family for 


THE NEXT MORNING 


125 


him to vent his rage openly on her. She will be 
relieved to know how entirely you have eluded 
them — and more, that you are content to abide 
by yoiir aunt's judgment and remain. I advise you 
to write by the first ship that sails, and let the 
marquise see that you do not rebel against her 
wishes." 

Well spoken, Constante ! - — and — I accept 
your advice and hers — but — " 

'‘Nay, nay; not a regret, Maurice. Our life- 
lines are here; let us make the best of them." 

"What has made you a philosopher?" smiled 
the other. " Was it the sparkle of those diamonds 
you spent last evening so close to? But you are 
right. I will seal the good resolution by calling 
early on Monsieur Lamort and presenting those 
papers to his notice ; so for an hour or two after 
breakfast you will have to seek your own amuse- 
ment. Be wise as you can, and lose no more 
of your heart to those Indian boat-paddlers." 

And the wily Constante bowed to the advice in 
silence, and with never a twinge of conscience let 
his friend pass out in ignorance of the heart- 
weighted dreams flitting through his own head — 
dreams for the future, a future made luminous by 
the memory of soft black eyes and a mouth tender 
in its curves as the mouth of a child. To be sure 
she might refuse to speak to him, beyond a " thank 
you" for that episode of the blaze. Well, even 
so — that spell of love's first illusion was yet with 


126 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


him — he was sure he could adore her forever at 
a distance. 

But once in the ruthless sunshine of the streets, 
face to face with the lazy yet curious eyes of the 
natives, he felt the courage of his solitude oozing 
away at the prospect of meeting also the dame 
of the diamonds — perhaps having even to woo 
her to win the other. 

Don Zanalta was not at home, by black Gourfi’s 
statement — a fact for which Monsieur Raynel 
was grateful. It is so much more difficult to ex- 
plain one’s enthusiasm to a man — women are 
more sympathetic, especially if the enthusiast be 
handsome. 

But Madame Villette — the ladies? Oh, yes — 
the ladies were home; and even Gourfi’s face ex- 
pressed the thought that it was a strange hour to 
be anywhere else — breakfast was so lately over. 

“Ask Madame Villette if she can grant me an 
interview so early, or if not, to let me know at 
what hour I may return and see her.” 

“And the name, master?” 

“ Constante Raynel.” 

Madame Villette gave a little gasp when the 
message was brought. He — so early, and so — 
so determined to be seen ! Ah, this was delicious 
and unusual — all the more delicious because 
Doha Zanalta had not yet been seen without the 
walls of her chamber that day; so it would be a 
tete-a-tete — it even seemed an adventure in her 
too prosy life. 


THE NEXT MORNING 


127 


And you may be sure Madame Ninon did not 
leave her chamber without very critical glances at 
her image in the mirror. Her prettiest slippers 
were donned, her most delicate-tinted scarf, and, 
as a crowning charm, she wore on the open- 
throated white gown a cluster of yellow roses. 

And Constante — the hypocrite — had discov- 
ered on the wall that long-since-painted portrait 
of the Spanish lady, before which he was posed 
when he heard that little tap, tap of dainty heels 
on the waxed floor. 

He turned with his most impressive bow, with 
eyes drooped in diffidence most charming. 

“Madame Villette!'’ murmured the rascal, as 
though he had waited ages longing for her face. 
Then his eyes traveled up from her slipper-tips 
along the childish figure to the adorable face, and 
suddenly he stood erect and confused. “Made- 
moiselle!’’ he stammered, “I — pardon me — ” 

She smiled, and reached out her hand as a 
friend might. He touched but the tips of her fin- 
gers, and looked at her. 

“ Pardon you that you served me last night, and 
that you so kindly come to ask after me to-day, 
monsieur?” she said, teasingly. “Do you think, 
then, that you committed a fault when you smoth- 
ered those flames? But pray be seated; and 
though you have answered neither of my other 
questions, I am going to ask another. Why do 
you call me both Madame Villette and mademoi- 
selle?” 


128 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


‘'Because, mademoiselle — 

“ Nay — madame/’ 

“Madame?’^ 

Was the handsome stranger mad? She was 
really startled at his wild eyes and sharp tones. 

“Madame — yes, certainly,’’ she answered, 
with a certain soothing intonation. “Had you 
forgotten? It is so easy for a stranger to forget 
titles where he meets many new faces ; and then, 
again, there are those who think they compliment 
by calling a lady mademoiselle. Perhaps when 
my hair grows gray I too will want to hear it; 
but just yet I am madame.” 

Madame! Constante looked at her stupidly. 
He wondered if he had been drunk or crazy last 
night that he had muddled things so, or inter- 
preted them wrongly. Madame ! Then she was 
a wife — some man’s wife! For one instant he 
felt that the floor was slipping from under his 
chair. Then with an effort he spoke, and kept 
his voice steady: 

“It is unpardonable of me to have forgotten 
anything concerning you, madame, but your good 
heart has divined the cause of my mistake. I 
fancied you were mademoiselle, and your relative 
madame.” 

“ You are correct only in her case. She also is 
madame, or senora, and a widow. I see you pay 
attention to that painting of her. As an artist, 
you of course are critical, and we can show you 
few treasures except some pieces, curious only 


THE NEXT MORNING 


129 


because of their age ; but my aunt tells me we may 
hope now to have some worthy work for our 
church since you have come. The news is wel- 
come. And do you paint portraits too?'’ 

Paint portraits ! Ah, that dreamed-of Madon- 
na with her eyes! She madame — a man's wife? 
Then he bowed low and found his voice. 

‘‘ You are pleased to be gracious to me, madame, 
that you show interest in my work. Yes, I have 
painted portraits, and hope to begin again on your 
shores. The lady — madame, your aunt — gave 
me permission to call to-day and hold converse 
with her concerning works of art. My enthusi- 
asm must be my excuse for so early a visit." 

‘'Your enthusiasm for art?" 

Almost his eyes betrayed him, as he felt they 
must have betrayed him there in the room of the 
palms last night. And she a wife ! It would not 
have been the first wife to whom Master Con- 
stante had uttered love-vows with as little prov- 
ocation — and she was so alluring with the color 
and perfume of yellow roses about her; but the 
confusion of her revelations was yet over him, 
and his eyes avoided hers. 

“Yes, madame; even a wandering artist must 
have some ideal that serves as an anchor — a mis- 
tress to whom he swears fealty; and art is gra- 
cious enough to accept all devotion." 

“ But art draws to herself so much that we miss 
in the more human world — as a mistress she is 
to be envied." 


130 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


“Nay, nay, niadame; she but soothes the dis- 
carded hearts, and recompenses them for the 
floutings of the world. She accepts so many who 
would find no welcome in a lady’s bower.” 

She glanced at him with softly closing eyes and 
a mutinous moue. A most eloquent glance for a 
wife to give, thought poor Constante. Alas for 
his Madonna! 

“ And your friend, Chevalier Delogne, is he also 
devoted to art, and thus self-exiled from converse 
with us poor ordinary mortals ? I trust myself to 
say ‘no’ to that, for he was not too far in the 
clouds to know us all last night — and even re- 
member our names.” 

“Madame, what better excuse would a man 
need for hearing nothing — remembering nothing 
— of the world about him than that he had once 
looked upon your face ? ” 

“Very pretty — very pretty indeed. Monsieur 
Raynel. Would the fine ladies of Versailles par- 
don forgetfulness for a speech like that?” 

“ Surely ; especially if their own hearts told 
them they had not been forgotten — that it was 
only the light of their eyes that had banished from 
one’s memory all titles, or conventional bonds of 
the world. You are pleased to be very unforgiv- 
ing to me, madame.” 

Ninon thought him handsome enough to be 
granted absolution for any crime. A winning 
face is a wordless voucher for merit — to most 


THE NEXT MORNING 


131 


women. But she only smiled and gathered her 
scarf about her. 

Come, monsieur. On the subject of art or of 
memory, we do not seem to agree very well. Per- 
haps on the safer one of flowers we may compre- 
hend each other better. The gardens of Orleans 
may seem novel to a stranger. Will you walk in 
ours?'’ 

Would Adam walk through Eden at Eve's call 
on that first day of her creation ? And Constante 
followed quite as willingly, but in vain wished 
that some one would appear an instant, call her 
clearly by name and then take himself away again 
immediately; for try as he would he could not 
settle in his mind her station and that of her 
aunt. One was senora and one was madame, it 
appeared; one was a widow and one was a fe- 
male Croesus. Either Villeneuve or his own stu- 
pidity had much confused him, but he dare not 
expose himself to her raillery by further question- 
ing; and he had not yet heard any mention of 
monsieur." 

And how gay she was ; seemingly care-free as 
the birds among the magnolia-boughs. A wife — 
he had seen no wives like her ; so girlish, so allur- 
ing, yet with so much of provoking innocence in 
her eyes. Should he ever be able to paint all that ? 

“ This side of the rose-walk is the special prov- 
ince of my aunt," she remarked, smilingly; '‘of 
course you will want to become acquainted with 
that." 


132 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


^‘Most assuredly — some day when its chate- 
laine is gracious enough to conduct me; but is 
there never a bower of your own in all this glow 
of color — or am I for my sins forbidden entrance 
to it?’’ 

“ Have you sins ? ” she asked, unbelievingly ; 
‘‘if so, of course I shall find you a retreat for 
prayer. Come; it is where I used to go when I 
was naughty and had been told to spend an hour 
in penitent thought.” 

“Is it so? Then rather let us seek a place less 
sanctified. You went there for prayer, but I, alas ! 
must confess that the sins oftenest to my charge 
are those of which I can not repent, and such a 
soul can hope for little grace.” 

“Ah, monsieur, are you then serious? But if 
you would but try to repent, if you would but say 
you were sorry, surely absolution would be grant- 
ed you.” And the hypocrite felt a wild tempta- 
tion to cover her hands with kisses as she looked 
up at him, but he shook his head. 

“ Nay, madame, I fear not; for only this morn- 
ing I begged pardon for an unwilling offense — 
begged with both heart and lips, but my con- 
fessor gave me no hope of forgiveness.” 

Ninon looked incredulous, yet full of sympathy 
for his sorrow. 

“ But what a hard heart to turn you away hope- 
less. Was the offense then so grievous?” 

“ Most grievous.” 

“Yet if you repent — ” 


THE NEXT MORNING 


133 


“ So I hoped, madame; but she — 

‘‘She?’’ 

“The lady who thought me unpardonable — 
the lady whose name I had forgotten.” 

Fairly caught, Madame Ninon laughed aloud 
— laugher filled with the music of the universe to 
Constante; but the merry sound reached other 
ears than his, for a window opened near them, 
and through the lattice the visitor caught a 
glimpse of a white-draped figure of ample pro- 
portions and heard a voice. 

“Madame Villette!” it demanded, as from 
some one within — “Madame Ninon Villette 
laughing like that out there in the garden and en- 
tertaining a gentleman ere people of quality have 
yet had cofifee or prayers ! Give me my gown this 
moment, Pepita ! What ! — you can’t find it ? That 
is some of that Venda’s work. I doubt if we shall 
find aught for a good seven days after her de- 
parture — the beast ! Come now — move quickly ! 
I will see this gay gallant who laughs under my 
windows, so — ” 

Her kinswoman did not wait for the conclusion 
of the sentence, but beckoning to Monsieur Raynel 
she sped through the arches of shrubbery and per- 
fume of roses until they reached a little gate at 
the side of the garden, and halted, flushed and 
breathless, listening for pursuing footsteps as a 
naughty child who feared punishment. 

“Some time when the day has grown older, 
monsieur, I beg that you will return to talk of art 


134 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


and its charms to my respected aunt; but if you 
come earlier than noon I warn you that for a full 
hour you will have only myself {only, oh, Ninon !) 
to talk to, and it seems we do not agree well. So 
I dismiss you most abruptly, lest you have to take 
your share of a scolding, and art might be the 
loser. Adios! I will see you again when you 
come to paint the portrait of Sehora Zanalta.” 

Surely this was a most intimate parting for two 
people who did not agree well. It was so sweetly 
puzzling to Raynel that the pleasure of it brought 
a pain in its wake — she was a wife ! 

He looked at her with curious scrutiny in his 
eyes. She was so much engaged in listening that 
she did not note it. It was all so delightful to her 
— a real adventure ; and the handsome fellow was 
plainly loath to leave her. She was smiling at 
the certainty of it, when he spoke : 

‘Hf I might hope to do your face as well, 
madame ? ” 

“Mine — my portrait? Well, perhaps. Yes, I 
think my brother would like it; we shall see.'' 

“I am grateful." But his voice despite his 
thanks had a certain hardness and directness as 
he looked at her. It was preposterous of course, 
but he could not endure uncertainty any longer. 
“And would monsieur also care for one? Shall 
I meet him? I think I have not yet had that 
honor." 

“Monsieur — ?" 

“Pardon me — your husband?" 


THE NEXT MORNING 


135 


“M on Dieu ! ” And she made a little quick sign 
of the cross. “Monsieur Villette! Yes, I truly 
hope you and he will some day meet. It would be 
well for you, as he was always a good man.’’ 

“Was?” 

“ Certainly, Monsieur Raynel ; and in Paradise, 
where one lives with angels instead of poor human 
creatures, he is surely no less excellent.” 

“ Paradise ! ” — and all the green garden swam 
before Constante’s eyes. “Oh, madame, pardon 
me! You will think me a heartless animal.” 

“Not at all” — and Madame Ninon’s eyes had 
a twinkle in them not brought there by the mem- 
ory of that soul in the celestial regions — “ only a 
man who is curious — ” 

“ Madame ! ” 

“ My aunt is coming ! Adios, Monsieur Raynel.” 


CHAPTER VII ^ 

DENISE OF THE CONVENT 

After the noon hour many people were astir in 
the streets that day. It was a holiday, and the 
creoles, eager as children, never missed a day of 
leisure or of merrymaking. Gay-turbaned ne- 
gresses rustled their “ bettermost ” petticoats for 
the admiration of their kind, and down by the 
river where the trees grew they gathered and 


136 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


gathered toward the sun’s sinking, waiting for 
the cool when the music would come for their 
dancing under the stars — their music, in which 
there never was blended the sound of a drum. 
That instrument had for so long been the signal 
by which the masters warned each other of an 
uprising among their blacks, that it was never 
used in their merrymakings; the deep, thunder- 
ous tones had too often borne startling messages 
to the hearts in the black lands, messages of war 
and devastation. 

Chevalier Delogne walked again on the street 
by the river, finding all the strange new life most 
interesting, but keeping a sharp lookout for Ray- 
nel, who had someway drifted into other chan- 
nels — on the alert for artistic material, supposed 
his friend. 

He heard his name spoken, and turning found 
Don Zanalta at his elbow, smiling most pleasantly. 

'^What, Chevalier, have you already smelled 
out the corners where the most amusing sport 
may be had? You make quick strides; but, after 
all, it is tame beside Paris.” 

No doubt.” And the stranger’s voice took on 
a certain curtness. He did not like much this 
powdered, perfumed Spaniard with the affected 
strut that had in it the airs and graces of a dandy, 
or of a woman who is vain. But his eyes had in 
them no feminine gentleness. They were keen 
and alert as they noted the wild whirls of the 
creoles, especially the bare cream-like arms of one 


DENISE OF THE CONVENT 


137 


of the women classed among the '' brown people.” 

“ Not bad — that,” he remarked, appreciatively. 
Anything darker has too much of coarseness of 
feature; but those yellow ones ape all the fine 
manners of their mistresses — that is what makes 
them so amusing.” 

^‘To tell the truth,” remarked the chevalier, 
they do not appear to me in the least amusing — 
their eyes look to me pathetic as those of driven 
cattle.” 

‘‘ That is because some of the prettiest are look- 
ing at you sentimentally,” laughed the other. 

Oh, it does not take them long to spy out a face 
and figure like yours. I assure you, you will not 
have to sue for favors.” 

Maurice looked at him in amazement. He had 
dropped a mask worn the night before, perhaps 
thinking to fall more quickly into friendship with 
youth by the use of flattery and suggestions that 
would prove alluring to many a stranger in search 
of adventure. 

am not looking for favors,” he returned, 
carelessly, ‘‘but for my friend Monsieur Raynel. 
He is sure to be where music sounds.” 

“ I saw him across there but a few minutes ago. 
He had a pencil and paper on which he seemed to 
be fixing the outlines of those three red men who 
lean against the wall, but never sing and never 
dance like the black slaves. In truth your friend 
has strange fancies to picture those sullen slave 


138 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


men instead of the bright faces of the brown 
girls/' 

“ Strange fancies — yes, many a one ; but I rath- 
er like this one of his, for those Indian men make 
a peculiar picture as they stand there, watching. 
Does not the taller belong to Monsieur Lamort? 
I think I remember seeing his face in the grounds 
there this morning." 

Don Zanalta laughed shortly. '‘That proves 
nothing," he made reply. “ All our slaves in the 
colony flock to the door of Lamort if they have a 
grievance to moan over — and it is seldom they 
have not a pretense of one. But I think he owns 
no Indian slaves, for he has been trying to influ- 
ence the cabildo to set free all the red men yet in 
bondage. However, it has not been done." 

The two had by this time sauntered to a seat, 
where they disposed themselves, and Don Zanalta 
tendered his snufl^-box to the young man, and used 
it freely himself, in the same delicate, dandified 
manner peculiar to him. Maurice had heard him 
spoken of as a clever and subtle mover in the cir- 
cle of politics, but was inclined to think the reputa- 
tion very easily won as he noted his little affecta- 
tions. Yet he of course was well acquainted with 
all that had taken place in the new land, having 
lived there so many years. 

“And why set the red slaves free and not the 
blacks?" asked the stranger. And again the 
townsman smiled patiently. 

“ The blacks — sacre! No one has dared mention 


DENISE OF THE CONVENT 


139 


that in the ears of the governor. It would 
mean revolution — no less. And as for the reds 
— well, there are not many of them now. Strange 
how they die out in captivity, instead of increasing 
like the Africans. Stranger still when one consid- 
ers that it is they and not the Africans who are 
native here ; so it can not be the climate that kills 
them. But they die nevertheless, and die as they 
live — silent, amid all the music. And Monsieur 
I.amort has unearthed a neglected declaration of 
O’Reilly’s that said the inhabitants of Louisiana 
must prepare to emancipate the red slaves — the 
natives of the soil.” 

And the declaration has never been enforced, 
or made into a law?” 

'' Oh, no ; it is waiting for the final decision of 
the king, and his royal wisdom has not yet led him 
in the direction of that action.” 

The chevalier glanced at him quickly to see if 
there was cynicism in the face as well as the 
words, but could perceive none. The eyes of the 
Spaniard were roaming idly over the groups al- 
ready dispersing, for the permit of the slaves sel- 
dom allowed their absence after nine o’clock — 
only the free people were remaining. 

^'But has it not been several years since the 
governor. General O’Reilly, made laws for the 
colony ? ” 

Don Zanalta looked surprised at the stranger’s 
persistence. 

^^Yes, certainly; twenty-five years, I think it 


140 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


is — a lifetime to some of them. But do you, too, 
monsieur, intend taking up the study of the slave 
trade? You will find it irksome, I fear.’’ 

''No; but if, as you say. Monsieur Lamort 
takes interest in such questions, I shall doubtless 
hear more of them. This morning we agreed that 
I am to be his private secretary.” 

"Do you tell me so? Well, well, I must con- 
gratulate you on having fallen in with so good a 
general. A wonderful man is Victor Lamort. 
You will doubtless learn much from him ! but do 
not let him teach you to upset the slave laws. I, 
for one, have trouble enough with mine now. But 
you must come to my house, Chevalier. A mem- 
ber of Monsieur Lamort’s household is always 
welcome ; and you, believe me, my young friend, 
are welcome for your own sake.” 

Maurice had but time to murmur his thanks 
when Zanalta arose abruptly and stood looking 
across the moving people to one person walking 
alone and quickly. Following his glance, the 
young man felt his heart leap as he saw a gray 
gown and caught sight of a white sleeve. 

"Pardon me; I wish to speak to some one,” 
said Zanalta, and walked swiftly across the little 
open space. There was more of decision and less 
of affectation in his gait. He was going to speak 
to the one whom Maurice in his thoughts called 
St. Denise. 

She raised her eyes as he came close, and looked 
quickly around as if to turn aside ; but it was too 


DENISE OF THE CONVENT 


141 


late, and an instant afterward he was bending 
with head uncovered before her. 

''Ah, mademoiselle, the saints are at last kind 
to me. Do you know I have watched each morn- 
ing for your accustomed visits to the poor, and 
only to-day did I learn that you came no more in 
the morning? But you must not go alone at 
nightfall, my child. Let me carry your basket.’’ 

"Monsieur” — and the voice of the girl was 
tremulous — " monsieur, perhaps you mean to be 
kind, but I have not come out at nightfall that I 
might find some one to carry my basket, and in 
all this town there is none that will molest me, so 
I need no cavalier. I have the honor to bid you 
good-night.” 

"Nay, nay, child; let me walk beside you, at 
least. It is not seemly that a maiden should ven- 
ture in this quarter alone.” 

"And less so that a gentleman of rank should 
escort the messenger of the convent. I am safe 
alone, monsieur. Pardon the plainness of my 
words, but I am much distressed that you — that 
you persist in meeting me when — when — ” 

"When you have said 'no’ to all the advan- 
tages offered you. Ah, Mademoiselle Denise — ” 

"I beg you, sir — no more!” And her eyes 
were both frightened and angry. " I shall never 
again walk alone on my errands if no hour of the 
day is to be sacred from these persecutions. By 
what right — ” 

"By the right of love,” he murmured; "the 


142 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


strongest right — the greatest force the world 
knows, my charming saint — and it will yet draw 
you to meet my thoughts. Ah! I shall claim 
sweet words from you some day for the smiles 
you deny me to-night. Come, now — 

But the girl had caught sight of a face in the 
scattering groups, a black woman whom she 
knew, and she slipped quickly to her side. 

Here, Maum Rosy, carry my basket and walk 
with me to the Place des Invalides.” 

“Hi! ma'm’zelle; Rosy — him got go home 
this minute — him got — ’’ 

“Come!’' And the girl’s fingers closed over 
the dark arm with compelling force. “Adieu, 
monsieur ! ” And she swept him a courtesy with 
a mockery strange in one of the gray habit, and 
walked rapidly away with the protesting Rosy. 
To Don Zanalta nothing was left but to return her 
bow courteously, and none in passing would have 
guessed the small drama enacted there before 
them all. 

Only the Chevalier Delogne stood apart and 
noted the brief pantomime. He envied Zanalta 
the acquaintance permitting him to halt and speak 
to her in an evidently confidential manner; but 
that mocking bow puzzled him. 

He was still standing there when the Don 
sauntered back, looking serene and unruffled. 

“A charming child, that,” he remarked, with a 
gesture in the direction from which he had come. 
“ Too bad that her popularity won by charity and 


DENISE OF THE CONVENT 


143 


good works is having a frivolous influence over 
her. It is never well for a community to let any 
one creature fancy himself a necessity.” 

But she seems to be really so to those poor 
folk by the shore.” 

*'You know her, then, already?” asked 
Zanalta, slowly, and eying him with a glance that 
was suddenly guarded. ''You know this Made- 
moiselle Denise?” 

"I know her name and face, monsieur, and 
from a crippled sailor we heard last evening a 
a hint of her virtues ; but I have not the honor of 
being known by the lady.” 

"Lady! Well, she is scarcely given that title; 
in fact she is an unclassed sort of being — a pro- 
tege of the good nuns, and intended, I believe, for 
their order. Too dull a fate for so pretty a face, 
eh?” 

" Not if the convent is one of the gates to 
heaven. Is not the world called to give its best 
to God? What fate more tranquil than the life 
she would live under the sisterhood of Mary?” 

But, quietly as he spoke, a chivalrous protest 
arose in his breast against the force of his words. 
So fair, so girlish; and the cross is so cold on 
young hearts. 

Don Zanalta smiled and twirled his walking- 
stick jauntily. 

"Very wise decision if made by a graybeard, 
my dear Chevalier, but not very human when ut- 
tered by lips of twenty-five. Nay, do not blush; 


10 


144 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


you will outgrow your youth, and haply also such 
cold-blooded disposal of beauty. 

At that moment there approached a man who 
had been standing a little way off watching the 
two for several minutes. His dress indicated that 
he was a sailor, and that as to race he was half 
white, half Indian. He spoke Spanish, and said : 

Pardon, Don Diego Zanalta, but I bear a mes- 
sage that the Sea Gull rests among the willows 
to-night, and her captain asks company of your- 
self and friends.’' There was the slightest sign 
of hesitation in his manner as he glanced at 
Delogne. 

‘‘ Dolt ! ” muttered Zanalta, drawing the man a 
little aside. ''Why speak aloud until you know 
who listens?” 

The other shrugged his shoulders. " When the 
words of France are spoken by the people who 
pass, he opens his ears and smiles ; when Spanish 
is spoken, he is in the dark and the trail is lost. 
I watched him; I know.” 

"When did Rochelle come back from the Ala- 
bamas?” 

The shadow of a smile touched the face of the 
half-breed. 

"This day ere the sun rose out of the sea.” 

"And he goes when?” 

" Who knows ? ” returned the other with indif- 
ference. "Maybe this night, maybe next year. 
Have you a message ? ” 

" Yes.” But he looked disturbed, and hesitated. 


DENISE OF THE CONVENT 


145 


‘'To-night of all nights; it is most unfortunate 
— this coincidence. Yet must I see Rochelle. He 
is as whimsical as royalty itself, and — yes, I must 
see him. An hour late perhaps, because of this 
other; but Gourfi can keep her guarded till my 
return. It is the best I can do.” Then from these 
ruminations he roused himself to look at the 
waiting half-breed. “Say yes. I may not be 
early, but I will be there. You comprehend?” 

The man replied by the slightest inclination of 
his head and a lazy droop of lids over his watchful 
Indian eyes. Whoever he served had not taught 
him to be servile. 

“ One would think I held audience on the street 
Bienville, since even my moments of rest must be 
distracted here by business,” Zanalta remarked in 
an apologetic way, turning to Delogne. “And 
have you not yet discovered Monsieur Raynel?” 

“ I think I see him now, and coming this way.” 

“ Then I shall feel the less regret at leaving you, 
Chevalier, when I see you with as merry a com- 
panion as your friend, and I have some matters 
that need attention this evening; so, adios.” 

“ Ah, there you are ! ” called Constante, and in 
a moment was bowing to Zanalta. “ What, mon- 
sieur, do you withdraw at my approach ? ” 

“To my regret,” responded the older man. 
“My time is limited this evening; but there will, 
no doubt, be others on which I shall have better 
fortune, and the earliest night at your convenience 


10 


146 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


I should be pleased if you would dine at my house, 
gentlemen/’ 

'‘You are kind,” began Delogne; but Zanalta 
checked him with a gesture and a smile. 

“Kind! — say, rather, lonely. And the ladies 
will also be glad of your coming, I promise you. 
My sister-in-law is already much interested in 
the art-work Monsieur Raynel is to produce here. 
I shall give myself the pleasure of calling on you 
to-morrow.” 

They exchanged bows, and he was about to 
turn away, when Constante seemed to recall an- 
other cause for delay. 

“Ah, monsieur, just a moment of your time. 
Pray tell me who one Captain Rochelle of the Sea 
Gull is; I am curious regarding that character.” 

Diego Zanalta wheeled about and gave him a 
look as though demanding whether the question 
was prompted by insolence or ignorance, then 
smiled in a hard way that was half-mocking. 

“ I regret that I am unable to satisfy your curi- 
osity on this point, monsieur, but unfortunately 
my acquaintance does not embrace every smug- 
gler and night-sailing vessel on our waters. In 
fact, it would take a man with no other employ- 
ment to keep informed on those troublesome 
points, and as a newcomer I should not advise you 
to become entangled with their mysteries. Again, 
biienas noches!” 

Constante stared after him with wide eyes, and 
then whistled in a manner lacking dignity. 


DENISE OF THE CONVENT 


147 


What think you of that speech, Maurice?’' 

“Nothing. Why should I? You have, it ap- 
pears, made inquiry of some one whom gentlemen 
are not supposed to know. You have, as oft be- 
fore, been indiscreet, and Don Zanalta resents it. 
However, he will learn ere long not to lay so 
much stress on your words. But who is this de- 
batable one of whom you speak?” 

“Rochelle? Oh, I have been talking to some 
old sailors who sprawl across the green over 
there. They were telling me wonderful things of 
sea and land about here (while I paid for their 
wine), and among other things, of the Sea Gull, 
a little vessel, seemingly English, that appears 
like a phantom to the superstitious ; never lies in 
known harbors, yet is seen fitfully on the waters ; 
is supposed to deal in wine, but none knows its 
customers ; is said to have an Indian crew, yet its 
commander is a white man. Some think him the 
prince of evil because of his varied knowledge. 
One man there swore to his conviction that he 
was Bowles, the white chief of the Creek Nation 
— Bowles who was also an actor, an artist, an 
American tory, an ex-British officer, and the com- 
mander of a piratical crew which had proven most 
disastrous to American and Spanish stores.” 

“ But how could it be this many-sided Bowles 
when the Spanish authorities secured him 
through some of his treacherous followers, and 
even now he is captive in the castle at Havana; 


148 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


and, indeed, did we not recently hear that he had 
died there — a prisoner?’' 

‘^True enough, but there are those about who 
seem to think that that many-sided adventurer has 
something supernatural about him; and just as 
he disappeared from these shores there came this 
other one, who is just as strange, from the de- 
scription they give of him — a man who handles 
the cards as though the devil marked the winning 
ones for his hands, a man whom no one has seen 
in the daylight, and who makes music on a viol 
as though the angels taught him. He also can 
speak as the red men speak ; but the one difference 
between him and Bowles is that no one can tell of 
actual crime he has done; therefore he is not 
called for by the law. But his mysterious coming 
and going can not have an innocent meaning ; and 
the folk here just think he is the devil — the devil 
who was Bowles and is now Rochelle.” 

‘^By our fortune, now, but you seem to have 
been studying very closely the history of New 
World adventurers the past couple of hours ; no 
wonder Don Zanalta was not flattered by your 
question. And what for this evening, Constante 
— to the cafe? Our days together will be few 
now, as I am promised to Monsieur Lamort for a 
season, so we must make the best of our time.” 

‘'We can not do that in the crowd of the cafe. 
No, let us stroll — so ! lam too restless for a seat 
at a table. I want to move — to walk — to fly if I 
could ! ” 


DENISE OF THE CONVENT 


149 


“Indeed! Well, when you take flight you will 
leave your intended address, no doubt. Could it 
by any chance be the house of the gentleman who 
just left us?’' 

“ How did you come to guess that house?” de- 
manded Constante; and Delogne smiled at the 
half-assent in the words. 

“How? My friend, do you forget that you 
passed all the evening at her side — that she was 
the only lady you noticed ? Whatever the rest of 
the assembly thought, I was convinced that you 
were at last serious and had concluded to be no 
longer a mere poacher in the field of love.” 

Constante stared -at his friend as though mysti- 
fied, and then smiled in a forced, half-hearted 
way. 

“ Oh, you thought so, did you ? And the lady 

— tell me what you think, now, for the one who 
looks on sees best how the game goes, you know 

— think you she will approve — will — ” 

“Approve ! Certainly, Constante, you are 

growing modest when you doubt your own at- 
tractions. I venture to say she is ready to say yes 
to you in less than a fortnight. Does that not 
cheer you?” 

“ Immeasurably,” groaned Constante. “ Oh, 
but you are a helpful friend to cheer a poor devil 
when he is in trouble ! ” 

“ Trouble ! You surprise me ! But of course it 
is heart trouble — the only kind you ever have. 
But if it is not that comfortable Doha Zanalta, 


150 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


then you will have to confess, for I have not been 
observing you closely for the past few hours, and 
am ignorant of the latest. Pray whose wife have 
you been swearing devotion to now?'' 

“ Maurice, I beg you not to walk brutally over 
my feelings in that fashion ! I was going to con- 
fide in you, but I will reconsider the subject until 
you are in a more sympathetic mood — and I'll 
repay you," he added, maliciously, “by telling you 
the other ninety-nine theories I heard about Mon- 
sieur Rochelle and the Sea Gull." 

Delogne suddenly contracted his brows and 
made a gesture to his friend for silence. He was 
trying to think what other voice had uttered that 
name, the Sea Gull, in his hearing. Not the voice 
of Constante, but a lazy, yet melodious voice — a 
voice with certain peculiar intonations — the 
voice of the half-Indian who spoke Spanish. 

“Well," demanded his friend, “I beg permis- 
sion to speak when your disposition will war- 
rant it." 

“Constante, have you observed that small as 
this colony is, it contains several problems to test 
our wit?" 

“Ah ! have I not ? One alone have I found that 
I will joyously devote my life to solve." 

The dusk had fallen — the odorous darkness of 
the Southlands. The stars were out here and 
there in the warm sky, but clouds scurrying up 
from the sea effaced their glitterings ; and the un- 
lighted street was very shadowy, save at times 


DENISE OF THE CONVENT 


151 


when a sedan-chair with a lantern on its poles 
would be borne by trotting negroes across the 
avenues, and they, few and far between, looked 
like fireflies. 

Afar off, along the bank of the river, sounded 
the strings of a guitar — sweet tones of the South 
and of night. Slave-voices sang somewhere in 
the dark where boats were moored, and the 
sounds blended harmoniously with the soughing 
of the warm wind under the stars. 

The two friends halted, and smiled into each 
other's eyes, and by mutual consent leaned in si- 
lence against an old live-oak and listened. The 
new land, with its music and strange shadings, its 
adventures and grande seigneurs, and withal its 
remoteness, was as a land of romance to each. 

Standing there so, without words, they listened 
to the charming sounds of the night, and noted 
the approach of a small chattering black boy and 
the gowned form of a priest, who passed within 
arm's reach of the two in the shadows, yet evi- 
dently did not see them, intent no doubt on some 
soul near death or in sore sickness toward whom 
they were hastening. 

'‘That monk is but a part of the picture," re- 
marked Constante. "How well he fits into this 
scheme of starlight, and soft, distant music. He 
brings me fancies of a possible senorita under a 
rose-trellis, and a possible Fra Lippo hastening 
to a tryst there." 

" It requires but little to start your fancies in 


152 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


that direction; but have you noticed where we 
are ? I did not until now ; this is surely one side 
of the grounds belonging to Monsieur LamorFs 
dwelling. You see it touches three streets.’’ 

''And a very snug abode for this land of savage 
people. Ah, that palm-room! No wonder my 
fancies turn readily to trysts here. The very at- 
mosphere suggests adventure.” 

"Hist! look at that!” 

" That” was a form approaching, but not in the 
frank manner of the priest. It was slipping along 
in the shadows, and halting every now and then 
to look back, as though waiting for some one. As 
it came nearer, yet without sound, they perceived 
it was some one barefooted, therefore a negro; 
and the stealthy manner of the man made the two 
in the shadow fairly hold their breath that they 
might discover what purpose he had in view — 
theft, perhaps, as he was approaching the dwel- 
ling of Monsieur Lamort in that suspicious 
manner. 

No other house was very near; gardens and 
empty spaces lay around; the nearest building — 
and that distant — was the home of the nuns, 
where a light glimmered at the gate ; so surely it 
must be the property of Monsieur Lamort on 
which the man had designs, and from his man- 
ner he was evidently awaiting a comrade. 

They were quite sure of this fact when far 
down the street another form was seen ap- 
proaching, walking rapidly, but wearing shoes — 


DENISE OF THE CONVENT 


153 


a woman evidently, or else a man wearing a long 
black cloak. At that distance in the darkness they 
could not be certain which it was, but one thing 
they could be sure of was that a third figure, re- 
sembling the first, and also barefoot, was follow- 
ing close behind; and with every moment the 
three conspirators, if such they were, were draw- 
ing closer together. The first to arrive stood in 
the shadows, awaiting the others. 

Three little notes like the call of a drowsy 
night-bird sounded through the silence from 
where he was, and the two strangers in the dark- 
ness by the live-oak felt it was a signal to the 
others that he waited. 

But only the one who came last seemed to heed 
it, and at the sound his stealthy stride changed to 
a run. Because of his bare feet he made no noise, 
and he could almost touch the gowned figure when 
that waiting one stepped swiftly from the 
shadows. 

Then there was a smothered scream, a drapery 
quickly flung over struggling arms, and in less 
than half a minute the second figure was but a 
shapeless bundle of dark cloth, being borne lightly 
in the arms of the two blacks, who fairly ran 
across the street and directly toward the live-oak 
tree. 

‘'Get to boat, quick!'’ muttered the first one, 
who seemed the leader in the afifair; “place all 
quiet now, but quick 1 ” 

And then he uttered a snarl of rage as he was 


154 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


obliged to halt in the midst of his haste. The 
sword of Chevalier Delogne, glittering in the dim 
starlight, barred the passage of the blacks and 
their burden. 

''Lay down that person, whoever it be!'' he 
commanded. 

But the black had no notion of obeying. He 
caught his load on one arm and with the other 
whipped out a rapier, with which he lunged for- 
ward blindly, without effect, however, for his 
bared arm was pierced with that long, glittering 
wand of steel, and the weapon fell from his useless 
hand. 

At the same moment Constante, though wear- 
ing no sword, fell on the other black with his 
cane, to such purpose that the two rogues, seeing 
a second champion make his appearance, con- 
cluded they had run into an ambush, and throw- 
ing their motionless burden at the feet of the 
strangers fled into the shadows and disappeared 
in the direction of the river. 

The chevalier sheathed his sword, and Con- 
stante picked up the rapier. 

" If the blacks of the country carry blades like 
this it must be that they have gold in their purses, 
or else most generous masters," he observed. 
" What say you now of adventure, Maurice, and 
what think you we will find in this wrapping of 
sail-cloth ? " 

Maurice did not reply; he was on his knees be- 
side the swathed figure, unwrapping quickly as he 


DENISE OF THE CONVENT 


155 


could the smothering stuffs, until out of the folds 
a limp white hand fell upon his own. 

lady, Constante! Mon rxien ! — my heart 
told me so. Quick ! here, unwind this as I lift her. 
Heavens! it is she — and she is dead — they have 
smothered her!” 

But Constante was the wiser, and shook his 
head as he bent over her. 

No, indeed ; she will live to see her own 
grandchildren, be sure of it. They have fright- 
ened her into unconsciousness, and small wonder 
— but it is not death.” 

^'Then come! At Monsieur LamorCs we will 
find help for her. Ah ! the black fiends, to touch 
you — you! ” 

“May I assist?” began Constante; but the 
chevalier made no reply, only arose from the 
ground with the unconscious form in his arms, 
and bore it swiftly through the grounds to the 
door of Monsieur Lamort — an open door, 
through which he strode without ceremony. 

A slave — the new slave, Venda — came for- 
ward at the sound, of feet on the tiled floor, and 
raised her hands with a gesture of wonder at the 
sight of the young stranger bearing a lady in his 
arms ; but with ready comprehension she led the 
way to a couch. 

“ How can I serve, master ? ” she asked, as he 
laid his charge on the soft cushions. “ Is it sick- 
ness — is it hurt?” 

“A fright — that, I think, is all. Care for her 


156 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


quickly — tell your master — ah ! do anything but 
let her lie there looking like death ! 

Venda called for a black girl to bring water, 
another to bring wine; and in the midst of her 
work of chafing the girl’s hands she looked up at 
Chevalier Delogne with a look of comprehension 
in her seldom-smiling eyes. 

‘'You drink also of the wine,” she nodded — 
“ all your face white like lady’s. Lady will live ; 
its heart beats good now. Master comes ; master 
knows medicine — him tell you.” 

And just at that moment Monsieur Lamort en- 
tered the room, drawing back at first when he saw 
strangers, and then recognizing Delogne he came 
forward, with surprise and interest at sight of the 
figure on the couch. 

“A lady, and one in the dress of a nun!” he 
exclaimed. “ W ell may our local government be 
called faulty when such an one dare be abducted 
ere darkness is well over our streets. Venda, 
you know most people — who is this ? ” 

“Master, she is the Convent Child.” 

“But there are many children under the care 
of the good nuns, and they all have names.” 

Venda bowed her head. 

“All have names,” she agreed; “this one is 
called Sister, and Denise, and the old people call 
her the Convent Child.” 

Monsieur Lamort’s eyes were bent on the un- 
conscious face with a strange baffled expression, 
as one who tries to recall some elusive memory. 


DENISE OF THE QONVENT 157 

'"A most lovely maiden/’ was all he said. '' Care 
for her well, Venda.” And then he turned to 
speak to the gentlemen. But Chevalier Delogne 
was walking to and fro with noticeable anxiety, 
casting every now and then a look toward the 
privileged couch, and scarce seeming to see the 
host or think of conversation. 

And the older man must have had a wondrous 
amount of comprehension of even youth’s lean- 
ings, for he raised his brows in a comical way and 
met the glance of Constante with a smile. 

“Ah, well ! Jove might be pardoned, for she is 
a wondrous fair maid,” he remarked; “and now 
tell me how it occurred. Have you anything by 
which you could identify those blacks ? ” 

“ Not I. To me every man of them is as a twin 
to the last one I saw, save when one is either very 
large or very small, very old or very young.” 

“And they fled — whither?” 

“Across your grounds and toward the river. 
Now I remember, they said ' to the boat.’ Faith ! 
I might have followed them. I did not have the 
lady to carry.” 

The lady was reviving under Venda’s hands, 
and Monsieur Lamort drew near as she spoke. 

“Ah! those wretches! have they brought me 
here? You are his slave — you — ” 

Her head dropped back weakly, and Venda 
gave her a little wine despite her shrinking mur- 
murs. Monsieur Lamort saw she was still fright- 
ened, and spoke. 


158 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


“ Those wretches you fear have been beaten 
away by these gentlemen,” he explained. '' Chev- 
alier, will you come forward and reassure the 
lady? She seems uncertain as to the hands she 
has fallen into.” 

Maurice did so, blushing with pleasure as her 
gaze rested on him, and seemed to say, “ I trust 
you.” 

Mademoiselle, be quite sure that in the house 
of Monsieur Lamort you are safe. This is he. He 
is glad to serve you, as are we all. Can you but 
give us a hint as to who your enemy is, that we 
may punish him?” 

She turned her eyes to the face of Venda. “ You 
— you,” she muttered, unsteadily. That white- 
crowned head seemed to hold her attention closer 
than the others. 

“This is Venda, my slave,” explained Lamort. 

Do not be afraid; she is kind of heart.” 

” I know,” said Denise, more clearly; ‘'but she 
is the voudou woman — she is the slave of Don 
Zanalta.” 

Her voice had a ring of accusation ; but Mon- 
sieur Lamort seemed not to notice it. 

“No; until yesterday it was so, but now she is 
of my household, and is at your service.” 

She breathed a little sigh of content, and closed 
her eyes for a moment, but the color was once 
more creeping into her lips. 

“And I am really in the house of the powerful 


DENISE OF THE CONVENT 


159 


Lamort? she asked at last, with a sort of childish 
pride. ‘‘How strange that seems!’’ 

“Only the manner of your coming seems 
strange to me,” answered the man she called pow- 
erful. “ My house will always be honored on the 
days when the garb of your order enters it, made- 
moiselle. But you seem to know every one and 
his calling here.” 

“I know you,” she assented. “They say you 
are pitiless to the rich in the court of law, but I 
only know you as one who is good to the sick, and 
who gives money to the convent that the poor may 
be cared for. Ah ! monsieur, I have divided many 
loaves among the infirm — loaves paid for with 
your gold. You are in our prayers often ; it is not 
strange that I should know you.” 

“Then am I more blest than I dreamed of, my 
child.” And he bowed as to a princess, and 
touched her fingers with his lips, an act that sent a 
rosy flush over her pale face. “You give me 
strength to withstand all the thunderbolts of the 
nobles when you speak so graciously of the little 
I have done for your poor.” 

“Young mistress drink more wine — little 
bit ? ” queried Venda; but the girl shook her head, 
and her eyes passed over the slave and rested on 
the two younger men. 

“I think I can rise now, and I should like to 
thank those gentlemen,” she said, shyly; but the 
efifort to stand was ineffectual, and Monsieur 
Lamort gently reseated her among the cushions. 


11 


160 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


Not yet, mademoiselle — one does not get over 
a smothering so quickly; and as for these gentle- 
men who have been so fortunate as to serve you, 
they are quite ready to receive their reward — 
here at your feet/’ 

With a gesture he brought them nearer, and 
Constante bent low as his name was uttered. 

‘‘I assure you, mademoiselle, we did not half 
enough in your case. I should at least have 
brought you those slave-heads on a salver. I have 
not earned a kind look from you. I was not al- 
lowed even to lift you from the ground. It was 
my comrade — Chevalier Delogne — whose arm 
and sword did you service.” 

'' You ! ” she said, and looking at Maurice, held 
out her hand ; but she seemed to find no words for 
him, only the shy profifer of her hand; her eyes 
thanked him, and to tell the truth, he looked as 
though fully recompensed, despite her scant 
words; but to Constante she could speak more 
freely. 

“ Nay, monsieur, I am sure your words are less 
valiant than your deeds. You are at least stanch 
to your friends, and though I have known few 
gentlemen, I am convinced that such men are al- 
ways the bravest in time of need. You came at 
my need to-night, and I thank you — both.” 

“If you could only give us some clue as to the 
enemy who would do you harm,” ventured Mon- 
sieur Lamort. 

But the girl raising her eyes met the level 


DENISE OF THE CONVENT 


161 


questioning gaze of Venda. The face of that slave 
seemed to disconcert her in some way, and she 
answered, hurriedly : 

‘‘I — an enemy! Sir, if you would ask of all 
New Orleans who would harm Denise, the an- 
swer would be, ' Not one of us/ '' 

Then perhaps some stranger ? suggested De- 
logne. '' Those who traffic in slaves would scarce 
hesitate as to whom they kidnap. Mademoiselle, 
when it pleases you to walk again after nightfall, 
pray let us know; I can promise you at least a 
guard of two.’' 

'‘Believe me, monsieur,” she replied, in evi- 
dent distress at what she mistook for reproof, " to- 
night’s delay was an unusual accident, and even 
now the good sisters will be much disturbed at 
my absence; I must go.” 

She arose with more determination, and de- 
spite Monsieur Lamort’s entreaties, declared she 
was strong enough for the walk, which was but 
short. 

" I will at least send with you a woman, lest you 
have need of her,” he declared ; " and, gentlemen, 
which of you — ” 

" If mademoiselle will allow me the privilege, I 
will gladly be her escort,” answered Delogne; 
"and Constante — ” 

" He will follow after to see that you return — 
that no one kidnaps you on the way home,” Con- 
stante amended; "and, by the way. I’ve a fancy 
as to the person those blacks were working for. 
11 


162 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


Does Monsieur Rochelle of the Sea Gull add the 
kidnaping of ladies to his long list of accomplish- 

“ Nonsense Raynel! We have made mademoi- 
ments?’’ 

selle quite nervous enough with our conjectures/’ 
warned Delogne; ‘'and, after all, we have little 
foundation to go on — how could we, being 
strangers? But of course you would want to 
draw your latest enthusiasm into the affair. Yoir 
talked of him to-night until misfortune was 
brought to those who walked our road ; so I beg 
of you — ” 

Monsieur Lamort glanced at them both, and 
caught the careless smile on the face of Con- 
stante. 

“Is Monsieur Rochelle so privileged as to be 
among your friends, then?” he inquired. “ If so, 
you surely have been making rapid strides in your 
knowledge of the New World and the people who 
live in it.” 

“He is a romancer,” explained the chevalier, 
“and this Rochelle is simply the latest mystery 
he has stumbled on. The things one does not 
know about a man are always mysterious to the 
visionary.” 

“I protest, monsieur, that the Capitaine Ro- 
chelle is mysterious to many besides this gentle- 
man,” said Denise. “ I confess he is so to me.” 

“Ah, mademoiselle,” and Constante’s hand 
touched his lip and breast in most profound obei- 
sance, “ I pledge myself your faithful servant for 


THE MAN ROCHELLE 


163 


so graciously coming to my rescue. Then this 
picturesque character is interesting also to you ? ’’ 

“ I can scarcely say that, since I have never yet 
looked on him, monsieur; but there are strange 
tales told of his doings, and I like to listen to 
them.’^ 

'' But not to-night, I beg you,’’ said Monsieur 
Lamort, with a smile. ‘‘It is bad enough for a 
lady’s nerves that she begin the evening with kid- 
napers, but to finish it with a recital of wicked old 
sea-kings — it would surely prove fatal to sleep; 
and when I call to inquire after you to-morrow I 
hope to hear an account of dreamless rest.” 

“ I would that you might come,” said the girl, 
simply, “that our good abbess might thank you 
with more fitting words than I can use. And now 
it grows late, gentlemen, and I must go. Yes, I 
will accept also the service of the black woman, 
monsieur, and I thank you — I thank you.” 


CHAPTER VIII 

THE MAN ROCHELLE 

Drifting clouds had been wafted westward by 
a persistent wind from the sea, the stars twink- 
led unmolested over the waters where the reeds 
grew, and alluring shadows where huge alligators 
heaved up heavily from their favorite playground. 


164 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


No moon shone, and a gloomy magnificence 
seemed the prevailing tone of the night. Afar off 
a twinkle where the land and water met would 
show keen eyes where the town lay ; but out there 
in the alleys of the marshes not a light shone. A 
ghostly bird drifted low over the reeds at times 
and buried itself in the far cypress. 

Yet a schooner lay moored there in a lane so 
narrow no coastman would have discovered her. 
The pilot who guided her over that water-patch 
must have had help of angels — or of devils; and 
the latter were commonly supposed to man her, 
for it was the Sea Gull. 

Everything was so still about her one might 
have fancied her a phantom vessel. But suddenly 
two figures appeared on deck, and the taller or- 
dered a boat lowered. 

“Do you go back to shore to-night?’’ asked a 
creole with a soft French voice. “ Ah, my Capi- 
taine, you are ever restless when so near the shore 
that you live on both land and water. I would 
rather see you set sail from this country once 
more, and let us linger in those South seas where 
the Spanish and Americans need never make us 
weary with their clashings.” 

“Wait, Robert; when the night of life comes 
closer we will have a chimney-corner somewhere, 
and a good bottle ever beside it — there we will 
doze in content, but not to-night. Does that pros- 
pect please you ? ” 

“Aye; but the flakes of snow in my hair are 


THE MAN ROCHELLE 


165 


already many/’ said the other, ruefully. '^You 
will have us wait and wait for evening in this 
world to claim our rest, but ere we know it we will 
have reached a morning in another, and the rest 
will have been left with yesterday.” 

The other laughed, and stretched his arms as a 
man who is weary only of inaction. '' Chut ! Sup- 
pose now you were called to a battle, eh — how 
much repose would you halt for then? No, you 
only play your infirmities to remind me of my own 
years — years, bah ! I feel like a boy again when 
I hear the kiss of these waters and the music of 
these reeds. The night always plays the devil 
with me; it bewitches some people, I think. 
When I was young, darkness on the water made 
me ambitious to do one of three things: fight 
the English, whom I hated; play grand music 
such as I had never heard, but loved, or — ” 

He ceased speaking and watched some ripples 
on the water made by an unseen sea-creature. 

''Or make love to some fair senorita, eh?” 
added the other. But the communicative mood 
appeared to have left the commander. He 
straightened up and looked across the dim vista 
to the tiny twinkles along the shore. 

"You have never been a lover, Robert, else 
you would know love makes itself,” he answered ; 
and then added, abruptly, "Lower the boat; 
Nicholas will take me across. Weigh anchor an 
hour before day breaks — all will be aboard by 


166 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


that time. Make no stop until the Apalachees 
are reached.” 

“It is only an revoir, Capitaine; you will sail 
with us again ? ” 

“It is always ‘only an revoir/ Robert. An 
hour, a night, a lifetime, and we are together 
again! So until we meet — ” 

Then the boat dipped with a splash into the 
dark water, and the capitaine descended, spoke 
a few words to a wiry dark man handling the oars, 
waved his hand to his mate, and dropped full 
length on the rug of skins spread in the stern, 
his face turned toward the sky as though to read 
something of import in the stars. 

The oarsman glanced at him from time to 
time, but ventured no word to disturb the thoughts 
of the one musing there. They were speeding 
over the water in a boat so light that it flashed 
through the resisting ripples as a thing alive, and 
the curls of foam spread outward like wings on 
which they were borne. 

The lights along the shore grew larger. Once 
the man in the stern noted them and raised his 
head. 

“Rest the oars, Nic. It is early. I have no 
longing for those shores ; it is better here, wild 
and free on the waters. How do you feel about 
it?” 

“ I ? The water is good — yes.” The man had 
the words and the curled hair of the black, but not 


THE MAN ROCHELLE 


167 


the features. He wore an Arab-looking scarf 
about his head and beads glinted on his belt. 

But what of the shore ? ’’ persisted the master, 
and pointed landward. ''That is the land of 
your people, your mother’s people; how do you 
feel when you come in sight of it — the fair do- 
main of the Spanish king?” 

The sailor threw back his head and looked at 
the questioner through eyes suddenly narrowed. 
His teeth showed in a sinister way when he 
spoke. 

"How you know what man feel here, even if 
he never speak word?” he demanded. "You 
know how I am made to feel,” and he touched 
his brow and breast. "You know maybe how I 
want all the knives the Spanish make to be put 
in one big knife, and I want all the strength of 
all the Indian and all the black blood over the sea 
to be put in one man’s arm — my arm — that I 
could cut the whites who are thieves from out this 
country, and pile them many as the stalks of corn 
when the harvest is. If the priests would give 
me prayer like they do white man, I would ask 
that the rainfall of all the world for one year 
be given in a night to our great river, that it 
might sweep the Spanish and the other bad whites 
into the sea ! ” 

His face was the face of a devil, and his voice 
had in it the hiss of a serpent. But the white man 
opposite watched him with unmoved scrutiny; a 
little smile as of sympathy touched his lips. 


168 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


“ Yes, you can hate, Nic,'' he observed. “ Did 
your Indian mother teach you that ? 

''No; I was only a little child when she was 
sold away again. But blood tells you things to 
feel though no one says words to you, heh?'' 

"Does it?’’ asked the other, watching him as 
though it was a curious specimen he was study- 
ing and seeking to understand. "Let me hear 
what it tells you.” 

"Ugh!” And the fellow leaned forward on 
the oars that crossed his knees. "It tells me 
voudou things, for they were lived when I was 
not born; tells me of my mother, a maid of the 
Natchez; of snaring her in the woods, and shut- 
ting her in the ship till the Cuba was reached — 
the white thieves did that! They gave her on 
that island to a black man for a wife, and my 
blood tells me she wanted to kill him, just as I 
wanted to kill him when I grew older and saw 
him asleep in the sun. Some black men good — 
him not good. She hated like I hate — I know. 
Then when her master sold her, but not me, she 
ran quick up where the cliff rises from the sea 
and let herself fall where the sharks lay. Every 
time I see a shark I think of the white men who 
live along the river that was ours.” 

The other man made a queer little sound like 
a laugh in his throat. 

"There are men who would deem such a pos- 
session as this Nicholas a thing of danger,” he 


THE MAN ROCHELLE 


169 


soliloquized; and then aloud, Do you know it is 
my people you are hating? ’’ 

I know,’^ assented the fellow. You bought 
me out of hell, and I would make myself a car- 
pet for your feet, but I can not kill the hate for 
the grand white rulers over there. I can not; 
I do not want to.” 

“ Nor I either,” muttered the other. He lay 
there quiet for a little while, master and slave 
alike steeped in reverie, the oars forgotten. They 
drifted noiselessly under the stars, and the man 
who was white clinched and flung out his hand, 
uttering an imprecation, as if some audible ex- 
pression must be given to his feelings. 

''Ah, the accursed lot with their paltry titles, 
their toy aristocracy with its paper walls of caste ! 
How I long to crush it like a bit of rotted fruit 
under my heel!” Then he looked across at the 
sailor, and thought, " He hates like that because 
of wrongs done ere he was born — he, a slave! 
Then how much my hate should exceed his — T 
who bear in heart and brain the cursed records 
their jeweled hands have written — ah! Take 
the oars, Nicholas; we will move inland. Keep 
your words about the whites for my ears, my lad ; 
no other will understand them so well. You are 
a good hater, and such a one is faithful — it is 
good.” 

The sailor nodded, and again the boat seemed 
to wake into life at his touch; and as they sped 
over the waters one could picture a tryst to be 


170 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


kept where lattices were not too closely locked, 
and the man in the stern a cavalier who could 
carry a knife for love as well as kisses. 

Not a youthful man by any means, though his 
full beard was black, and the hair too; hair tied 
back, but not netted or braided, just left in curled 
locks about his brow and throat, joining his 
beard until his eyes and upper face were simply 
framed in the silky darkness — a sea-king truly 
in appearance, and one would judge him Spanish, 
yet by his own words he hated the Spanish, and 
each man of his vessel was partly of Indian blood 
— a very good reason for the suspicion that he 
also was connected with some tribe. 

Nicholas avoided skillfully all craft in the river 
and guided his boat less swiftly and in perfect 
silence along the shadowy shore, passing here 
and there the '‘flatboats’’ of Kentucky traders, 
and of insidious English, who could be trusted 
for but one thing — their certainty to draw 
strength, as a vampire sucks blood, from the very 
heart of the French and Spanish colonies. 

The place they were approaching was by no 
means the select corner of the town. Hostelry 
and cafe elbowed each other in house of logs and 
house of plaster; women's laughter came out 
across the water at times, and the tinkle-tang of 
the banjo, or the softer, deeper music of a guitar. 

In one of those places a woman — the wife of 
the accommodating proprietor — was singing a 
song for the pleasure of some Americains, who 


THE MAN ROCHELLE 


171 


paid for wine and ate and drank like savages — 
a very spirited song, full of so much revolution- 
ary spirit that a Spaniard in military dress raised 
his finger and shook it at her, with a smile of 
reproach. But as Sehor Grenadier did not look 
at all ferocious, she rewarded him with a little 
mone that was like a mute invitation to a kiss, 
and finished the ballade in triumph. 

''If ill fortune did not force me to be on guard 
in an hour, I would remain, to be sure that no 
revolutionary seed was sown here,’’ he said, jok- 
ingly, over his cigar. "Do you know, Madame 
Manette, that your pretty songs might not be 
much liked by the sehors of the Cabildo? To be 
sure, you only mean to be merry, but they are 
dull to comprehend a jest, and if others of the 
guard should chance in I would have to beg you 
to cease — you comprehend? I only speak in the 
interest of peace, for civil war is an ugly thing to 
manage, and from a song might grow a battle.” 

"Oh, we thank you, Sehor Soldier.” And all 
madame’s pretty teeth shone. " It pleases the 
rangers to hear those ballades of Paris and the 
revolt, but I assure you I will not sing them for 
the nobles of the Cabildo ; yet for your good-will 
I promise to sing any Spanish song you ask for 
when you come again. Buenas noches, senor” 

After the departure of the gentleman of the 
guard, all the remaining visitors were of the 
ranger class. Kentuckians, with their long knives 
and their flint-lock muskets, sat around enjoying 


172 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


Spanish tobacco and French wine, though the 
older ones invariably called for rum, and then 
the spirits distilled at Jamaica filled many a cup 
quickly emptied. Then there were the semi- 
French, semi-Indian voyageurs, with their fur- 
trimmed garments, and the bright gleam of quills 
and beads glinting over them as they turned in the 
light. Many slim young faces belonging to bodies 
lithe and alert as deer-hounds, and in their ex- 
pression a sagacity not seen in the young faces of 
the courts — a keen directness to see and judge — 
though there in the cafe by the river their whole 
attitude spoke of relaxation. They had come 
far through the wilderness; had reached, per- 
haps for the first time in a year — two years — a 
place where music sounded, where men were 
merry, and where a roof was the usual thing to 
sleep under instead of the high sky and the un- 
walled horizon. 

So they paid out their bits of silver coin for 
the enjoyment so rare to them, and on the tables 
where they had eaten, the platters were pushed 
aside and playing-cards were produced. Pretty 
Madame Manette was most helpful in forming 
the games ; and an hour after the Spanish guards- 
man left more than one player had little piles of 
silver before him and was striving for the smile 
of Dame Fortune. 

It was then that a newcomer entered — a man 
in long cloak and slouch-hat, who stood inside 
the door and swept the room with keen eyes, as 


THE MAN ROCHELLE 


173 


if in search of known faces, and not finding them, 
advanced indifferently. 

''Any one been here for me, madame?'' he 
asked, as one who is acquainted. 

" No, Senor Zanalta, not yet; but it is yet early. 
You see all these are strangers of the north coun- 
tries, traders and trappers — no more.'' 

" More are coming now." And Zanalta looked 
toward the door, where steps were heard, but he 
stepped back into the shadow until the newcomer 
was seen. 

There was no concealment, however, about the 
stranger. He strode in and looked around, with 
a wave of his hand that bespoke good-fellowship. 
A boy at one of the tables was whistling an air, 
and ceased in the midst of a strain to place his 
money, when the stranger coolly took up the 
measure and whistled the finale of it himself, 
causing all the heads to turn toward him ; and the 
youth grinned in a puzzled way, feeling honored 
by the drollery of so imposing a person directed 
toward himself. 

"Cracky!" called one of the Americains. "If 
you can play, mister, as well as you can pipe. I'll 
not be one to enter a game with you, though I'd 
cheerfully pay for your rum to hear the whistle 
again." 

" Anon," returned the other. " And how goes 
your world, Madame Manette? Faith, you grow 
more charming with each return trip I make 
to your port." 


174 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


''Then is it seemly I should beg you to come 
with more frequency/' she returned, with an in- 
nate coquetry in her shrug and glance. " Though 
Capitaine Rochelle can not enter our door too 
often, because of the merry spirit he ever brings 
with him. But see, monsieur, there is some one 
besides me to greet you — Don Zanalta." 

"Well met, most gracious sehor!" And the 
hat of Rochelle was lifted with an exaggerated 
flourish. A spirit of bravado seemed natural to 
him, even his voice, deep and somewhat husky, 
had ever a suggestion of buried laughter. 

But the smile of Don Zanalta was not very 
cordial as he returned the salute. " It is pleasant, 
of course, to know that our friends are merry 
over meeting us, monsieur,'’ he said, in a tone 
showing chagrin; "but why take this canaille 
into our confidence ? " 

"Oh ho!" laughed Rochelle; "that, amigo 
mio, is one of the disadvantages of being one of 
the 'noble.' The rulers of the land must never 
be seen in the modest corners of their domains 
without a mask, lest they be thought to possess 
modest aspirations themselves. But I thank the 
good God I am not proud, in proof of which I 
am willing to empty a bottle with you, even in 
this unaristocratic corner." 

The mockery caused Zanalta's teeth to tighten 
on his lip, but he followed to a table in the corner, 
though evidently unwilling. 

" You are, to say the least, in a devil of a mood. 


THE MAN ROCHELLE 


175 


to choose this place for meeting/’ he persisted. 
‘‘ Why not the cabin of your own vessel ? ” 

can see the cabin of my own vessel every 
day in the year, if I choose,” he returned, care- 
lessly. “ But 1 fancy new faces and walls some- 
times. I fancy corners of Orleans unspoiled by 
the conventional shackles of aristocracy. Yov. 
comprehend, my noble friend? And then the 
songs of madame are always excellent — more so 
than the wine she serves us.” 

It is natural you should grow fastidious,” as- 
sented Zanalta. “You yourself have choice of 
so many wines in your voyages to — ” 

Rochelle laughed. “ Never mind the port. You 
know you enjoy it all the more from the supposed 
fact that it belongs to lawless traffic. Of course 
you are a good subject — long live the king! — 
but how you all love to cheat him of his per- 
quisites ! ” 

“Be wary, Sehor Capitaine! In your choice 
of meeting-place who can tell what ears listen? 
Who can be sure that the Spanish guard will not 
echo your steps as you leave here?” 

“ True — true enough,” assented Rochelle, with 
a wise smile in his eyes. “ But have I not friends 
in Orleans who will see that no harm comes to 
me from the state? I can mention at least six 
whose good hearts would not let me suffer — 
yours heading the list, amigo mio. But” — and 
his brow showed a deep wrinkle — “where is our 
friend Sehor Ronando to-night? Is his stomach 


12 


176 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


too weak for this ? And he nodded toward the 
assembly in the center of the room. 

^'No; it is awkward, sehor, excessively so, but 
the money he owes you it is impossible for him 
to raise at this season. His father, the old judge, 
holds him in bad favor for other things just now.’’ 
^^Ah!” 

‘'Yes; his highness has suddenly drawn the 
lines very tight about poor Gabriel, though to be 
sure it is more the fault of Monsieur Lamort than 
any other. He has been unearthing buried and 
forgotten laws; from his own eminence he looks 
on all pleasant folly as a crime, and wherever he 
finds laws to agree with him he takes exceeding 
pains to enforce them.” 

“You have mentioned this Lamort ere this; 
so have others.” And Rochelle looked interested. 
“The aristocrats give him wishes that are near 
curses, I hear, but the canaille look on him in a 
different light. Drink down your wine, and tell 
me of this priestly law-giver.” 

“Priestly, no; I have never seen him enter a 
church. But he has a scent like a fiend for a 
path that is crooked, and chains for a neighbor 
of his that walks in it. I tell you it is well for 
you that King Charles’s men and not Victor La- 
mort have an interest in knowing when your car- 
go is unloaded — and where.” 

“Bah! — a French adventurer who tries to 
climb to high places by dragging others down.” 

“Not quite. He has refused the high places 


THE MAN ROCHELLE 


177 


so far offered him ; therein lies his influence with 
the Cabildo — with the governor himself. When 
a man punishes vice through love of virtue, you 
must agree he becomes somewhat of a wonder, 
and wonders have their influence.’' 

“And the aristocrats do not love him, though 
they sit at his table, I dare say. Could you not 
take a friend of the sea with you some fine eve- 
ning when you want to sup?” And Rochelle 
laughed quietly at the dismay on Zanalta’s face. 
“Never mind, I shall call alone to present my 
respects to him some morning; and if debts of 
honor are not looked after more closely in the 
colony I will take a hand in the game of virtue 
played by Monsieur Lamort, and might give him 
some points for his prosecution.” 

“Tut! — you are not serious.” 

“Why not? I might turn monk or saint yet, 
and I count on my luck-money buying me peace 
with heaven.” 

“Then I must contribute my share.” And 
Zanalta drew some rolls of gold from his pocket 
— the gold received for Venda — and stacked 
them beside the wine-glasses. “ I should not want 
you left in purgatory because of my debt.” 

“Lest my spirit should haunt you?” said 
Rochelle, with that laugh in his throat; but the 
face of the other changed to a quick frown. 

“Make your jests on some other subject, if you 
please,” he answered, curtly. “I do not relish 
such things.” 


178 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


“ I see — and I wonder why, amigo f Now if it 
were I — I am expected to know something of 
sending souls to paradise, and should grow ner- 
vous at turning dark corners lest some soul shut 
out is waiting me there ; but you — why, you have 
been a loyal subject, a proper man, and without 
a record against you in the courts, so the unhappy 
dead will not howl at you for a chance 
of revenge/’ 

Cease! can’t you?” growled Zanalta, and 
tossed down another goblet of wine. By heaven, 
you are a worse croaker than an old voudou ! I 
will talk to you some other night; I am going 
home.” 

'' Why such haste ? Better wait until the moon 
comes up; the night is at its darkest.” 

‘‘Its darkest!” Zanalta dropped again into 
the chair. “ Then do something,” he suggested ; 
“get the cards — sing a song — do anything but 
sit there and talk of gruesome things.” 

“Just as you say — I am ready for a game at 
any hour of the night; but let me remind you 
that when we played last you insisted you would 
not touch cards ‘with me again.” 

“True — the devil played with you that night, 
and I was vexed at your luck ; but to-night I will 
not risk enough to spoil my temper.” 

The seaman was clearing the glasses from the 
table, pushing them aside, and dropping the gold 
in his pocket. 

“You have not even looked at the amount 


THE MAN ROCHELLE 


179 


there/’ remarked Zanalta; and the other smiled. 

“Never fear that my Orleans friends who 
know me will ever try to cheat me/’ he returned. 
“ You see how implicit is my faith in you?” 

Zanalta said nothing. He was galled by the 
thinly veiled suggestion of Rochelle’s speeches, 
and once or twice that evening the idea came 
to him that never before had he presumed to quite 
so many covert threats; and looking across at 
the careless roysterer something akin to tempta- 
tion to murder crossed his mind. He hated so 
this fellow of bravado — and knowledge. 

But the fellow played with the cards, hummed 
a love-song in a deep bass, and seemed to enjoy 
rolling out gold-pieces to make the game of 
interest. 

“So Ronando is in disgrace — eh?” he asked, 
carelessly. “Is there a cause?” 

Zanalta made a contemptuous motion of the 
lips. 

“Monsieur Victor Lamort has persuaded the 
Alcaldes to that effect. The reason given is the 
breaking of the law under Article 6 of the Black 
Code.” 

“Ah! Has the persistent Lamort then dis- 
covered that pretty creole slave and her white- 
skinned child on the Ronando plantation to the 
north ? That is a pity. He should have learned 
wisdom from his father, who was too much of 
a fox to let his amusements be known to his 
neighbors.” 


180 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


Zanalta, too astonished to speak at once, simply 
stared. 

''So you know that?’’ he said at last. "I do 
not wonder that people call you a man from the 
devil.” 

" Do they call me so ? ” smiled Rochelle. " I 
take it as a compliment to be thought unusual in 
these strait-jacket days, when the Cabildo de- 
cides everything on Orleans island from the gate 
by which souls enter heaven to the fashion of a 
man’s temper on earth. And so Monsieur La- 
mort is looking up those troublesome old slave 
laws? What an unpleasant neighbor he must 
be for you, amigo!'' 

"I have not the honor to understand you,” 
retorted Zanalta, with a scowl. But his opponent 
only laughed, and dropped his last card on the 
table, winning the game. 

"You mean you have not the inclination,” he 
answered. " And there may, after all, be little to 
understand; only I have heard of some curious 
dealings on this soil — dealings accepted by the 
local government in past days — and if this med- 
dler should chance on some of them — well, more 
.than Ronando might have slaves confiscated, and 
acres too.” 

" Ugh ! Can’t you speak of less somber things ? 
Tell me any word you have for Ronando.” 

" Only this, that within thirty days I must have 
my money.” 


THE MAN ROCHELLE 


181 


“Monstrous! — that is — well, he simply can 
not make settlement/’ 

The smile in the eyes of Rochelle changed to a 
fierceness — a cruelty, and his fingers clinched. 
One could tell by a glance at him then what a 
tyrant the man might be when a passion of his 
was touched. 

“ I am not accustomed to the words ‘ can not,’ 
Sefior Zanalta,” he answered, with a cold sneer. 
“Debts owed to me must be paid to me — else — ” 

“Well — what?” 

The seaman recovered himself at the question, 
and the smile, like the radiance behind a dropped 
mask, reappeared. 

“Oh” — and he sent a shower of cards in the 
air and caught them by some sleight of hand — “ I 
might think it my duty to kill him if he refused; 
and then I might simply lay the case before his 
august father, the judge.” 

“Yes; and be called on to stand a trial for 
smuggling.” 

“Ah! — perhaps; but, after all, who knows 
that I smuggle, if I do? The gossips along the 
streets, who repeat my name, and fancy me pirate^ 
and Indian, and devil — which of them has ever 
seen me dispose of a sou’s worth of merchandise? 
Not one. And, on the other hand, the aristocrats 
like yourself, who have a fancy for wine such as 
is drunk in my cabin — well, if a boat touches the 
shore with kegs of that wine for you, are you 
going to give evidence that you have cause to 


182 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


think I smuggled, for you received the goods? 
Ah, amigo mio, think not to trap a wolf with 
cobwebs/’ 

^‘But think of Ronando’s necessities at pres- 
ent,” insisted Zanalta, as if not noting the argu- 
ment advanced. ‘^He has but just been married, 
and—” 

Rochelle laughed heartlessly, and arose, slip- 
ping the gold-bits into his pocket as though he 
loved the sound of them, letting them fall one 
on the other with slow deliberation. 

“Married, is he? That is good. A marriage 
no doubt arranged with all proper ceremony by 
the families, as the marriage of an aristocrat 
always is — a marriage to make glad the heart of 
the old judge — eh ? I like to think of that. Wed- 
ding-bells? Well, we can’t have them down in 
this corner, but we can have other jingles. 
Madame Manette, wine for the house ! And how 
is it you have no music and dancing to-night? 
Do you assume mourning for the dead in Paris ? ” 

“ No, monsieur ; but to tell you the truth, that 
beast — that monster, Pierre, has been swilling 
some vile stuff elsewhere, and he’s now stupid 
under the table of the kitchen. The violin is 
there — yes, but no one to play it; and these 
strange men from Kentucky ask me to sing and 
sing, and I can sing no more. That beast Pierre ! ” 

“Do not grieve your gentle heart, madame. 
Ho ! lads, are there any of you would shake a foot 
if there was music? Good! Then listen. A 


THE MAN ROCHELLE 


183 


bottle of wine to the one who changes his steps 
oftenest, and another to the one who can dance 
longest. Now dance, you devils, dance!’’ 

And they did. Madame Manette had brought 
to Rochelle the fiddle, and with one long draw 
of the bow, like a wail, he played. 

Zanalta, standing back near the wall, watched 
him — -'his hat thrown ofif, and foot keeping time 
gaily to the music; his laugh and his jests flung 
out to any who challenged him. 

''Fiddle? Oh, yes; and dance too, Madam.e 
Manette, if you would be my partner.” 

"You play pretty airs, monsieur,” she com- 
mented, beating time with one graceful upraised 
hand. 

" Why not ? Have I not your eyes for inspira- 
tion? You drive away prose, and I am young 
again to-night. Encore, my lad — that was good ! 
Come now, thou hardy ranger, does the dance 
tire you so much sooner than the chase? Split 
the boards, my lad, and another bottle is yours! 
Dance now, dance all, and the devil keep time ! ” 

So he played there, played, and jested, and 
laughed — a lusty Pan scattering gems of music 
on those uncritical dancers. And the one cul- 
tured taste in the cafe stood astounded at the 
revelation given of musical talent — something 
more than mere talent, a wild sort of genius that 
spoke through his fingers and set the blood ting- 
ling, the spirits leaping. 

"A fiend, I truly believe; yet all the people 


184 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


to whom he speaks wish him to speak again/' 
muttered Zanalta. By the saints, it was an ill 
day when our paths crossed. Yet — who knows 
— even a savage has, I suppose, some friend of 
whom he grows fond, and of all the men with 
whom Rochelle has played he seems most kindly 
to me. Yes, even Ronando noticed that, and 
thought my influence — but bah! who can influ- 
ence that bravo there if he once sets his mind 
to be displeased? I wish with all my heart he 
would play himself into a fit of apoplexy." 

And with this unchristian thought the Span- 
ish gentleman approached the fiddler. 

'‘Well, Rochelle, since you are wed to music 
to-night, I will take myself away. May I not 
hope to take kinder words to Ronando ? " 

"Assuredly, senor; take to him what kindly 
word pleases you — all the love of your heart — 
but from me give him the thirty days." 

And the musician smiled, and nodded to the 
music, and to emphasize his words, and then 
added, " A moment, senor. I may like your island 
well enough to be within sight of it for a space. 
You may need a friend, and I may let you know 
where I am to be found ; but, amigo, do not come 
again with the hat and cloak of a disguised brig- 
and. I assure you there are no assassins in these 
corners waiting in the shadows with hidden 
knives." 

Zanalta bowed, and walked out into the 
darkness. 


THE MAN ROCHELLE 


185 


‘'Perhaps not, Monsieur Rochelle,'’ he said 
to himself; ‘‘we shall see."' 

The wild beat of the music rang through the 
room and out into the night. One by one the 
dancers left the floor until only two danced, en- 
couraged by the laughter of their companions — 
until one suddenly stood still. 

“What a fool I am to hop like this when no 
matter which of us wins the wine both will help 
to drink it," he decided, with late-come wisdom. 
Whereon the wine was ordered, and all drank 
thanks to the music that had been like a bit of 
witchery to their feet. 

But the musician only smiled and nodded his 
black head, not ceasing his playing, only drifting 
into different themes — music to sing with or 
pray with, wild airs with storms of the seas rush- 
ing through, and sweet calls as of birds after the 
rain is over and the sun slips through the clouds. 

Pie appeared oblivious or indifferent to the 
people about him, though they had all grown less 
hilarious. Their tones were lowered; one youth 
even whispered when he asked, “Who is that?" 
And Madame Manette crossed herself and shook 
her head. To say for a surety that this was the 
laughing Rochelle — she did not know what to 
tell herself ; but she well knew music like that had 
never before been played under their roof. 

And when he ceased all drew a longer breath. 
They began to chatter aloud once more. When 


186 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


inadame came forward he handed her the violin 
and some coin. 

‘'That for the reckoning; and there is Pierre’s 
fiddle — I may borrow it again. Buenas noches, 
senora. My lads, adois” 

Not a laugh, not even a smile, as a finale for 
the evening he had made so hilarious for them. 
He pulled his hat over his eyes as one does when 
the sun sets the sands or the water all a-glitter, 
and without further words walked straight 
through the room and out. 

“Begad, but that furrener is a curious mate 
to cross trails with,” said an old hunter. “I was 
a-thinking he’d be a prime one to have on a trip 
if provender was short. He’d make ye forget 
all eating and drinking if he had but a fiddle.” 

“ Aye, but I’ll go bail he has his sullen fits too,” 
observed another ; “ and I’d choose to be far away 
when they touch him.” 

The semi-French voyageurs from the Illinois 
chattered of him in their soft patois, and gesticu- 
lated to emphasize the spirit conveyed to them 
by the music; and one old north countryman 
puffed at his pipe and frowned into the smoke as 
does one who tries to collect scattered memories. 

“ Once I knew of one like to this — this gentle- 
man of the museec,” he remarked at last. “It 
was of many years gone I have the memory — of 
up the big river to the place where the black 
gowns built the crosses and taught to the saiwage 
men the true religion. Yes; I was young man 


THE MAN ROCHELLE 


187 


then. He was young man too — a boy who loved 
the boat on the water and the jungles, who could 
sing the songs of the birds, and traded all the 
skins he got for new things of niuseec to play 
on. Ah! the good priest made lament over that 
sometimes; but the boy was close to his heart 
after all.’' 

'‘Pouf! Is that all the tale you will tell of 
him ? Where did he range to with his songs and 
his music?” 

" We never knew. Once — as it had often hap- 
pened — he entered a boat with the good Father 
Luis to drift down where we are now. The good 
father returned when the time was come, but the 
youth of the songs we never saw — not any more ; 
and I never thought to live to the day when I 
would hear again sounds that he would make on 
the fiddle, but it has been. I heard it to-night 
when the Spanish-spoken man made the museec.” 

But the finale of the old voyageur's story did 
not interest the young members. It was unsat- 
isfactory to hear but a fragment of a life-story, 
and the old man was questioned no more; he was 
left to enjoy in silence his pipe and his memories. 

And the Spanish speaking man? 

He was out alone under the stars and the pale 
late moon, sitting on the side of an old boat left^ 
because useless, along the shore. The little lap- 
ping waves came almost to his feet, and reflected 
broken fragments of those lights in the heavens. 
Up and down there in the loneliness of the 


188 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


night he had walked for some time, as if in deep 
thought. The boat from which he had stepped 
was not to be seen ; but he did not seem to be 
looking for it, only wanting a place alone in which 
to mutter either curses or prayers, for each 
seemed to be finding vent through his speech, as 
though he were borrowing an hour from life in 
which to let loose some wild mood that even the 
music would not serve to quell. 

Yet, were not all the seas wide enough for any 
discontent of his, that he sought this lonely bii 
of one small island? 

Far ofif some guard on duty called the hour, 
and a bell sounded across the water. It was 
midnight. 

He arose at the reminder, and flung out his 
arms as a man who is weary or slothful. 

An empty night after all,” he muttered. 
''Well, progress is a question of moods, and my 
mood was wrong to-night; and then, well, even 
the devil must grow tired — tired at times, though 
he has his own way in hell.” 

He looked around in the moonlight dimmed by 
the fog. No moving thing was visible but the 
little waves and their wreckage, though if his 
eyes had been sharp enough to see through the 
darkness to the heavy timbers a few paces away 
he would have discovered a black form flat on 
the ground in the shadow of the piled-up logs, 
passive as though asleep. 

But at the first step of Monsieur Rochelle the 


THE MAN ROCHELLE 


189 


head was raised ever so slightly — listening — 
listening ! 

And as he walked slowly past, with bent head 
and hands clasped behind him, the figure rose to 
its feet and ran in a half-stooping, stealthy way, 
ready to drop flat on the ground if the man ahead 
of him should turn around. 

But he did not. Once he halted and listened 
to a sound that seemed to come from an open 
boat-house just ahead of him and a little to the 
left; but it was not repeated, and he walked on 
close in the shadow. 

But just as he reached the boat-house there 
was a sudden rush of bare feet behind his back, 
a warning cry from the boat-shed, a crushing 
stroke of a stick that cracked and broke, a howl 
and a curse as some one staggered hurriedly 
away. It was all done so quickly that Monsieur 
Rochelle could but spring aside and turn, with 
his hands on his pistols, when it was all over ; and 
before him there stood only a slave-woman with 
white hair and the splintered stick in her hand. 

'^He is gone — but see!'’ And she pointed 
near his feet, where a sinister-looking bag of 
sand lay. ''Black man creep, creep where you 
not see — but I see, so I wait; I do so." And 
she made pantomime of striking with the stick. 
" He feel me, see me — think me voudou. He 
run — heh!" 

"And this was for me?" he asked, pointing 


190 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


to the sand-bag, though his eyes never left the 
W'oman's face. 

For you. He run ; he fling it back so, to let 
it strike on your head. Then this fell heavy across 
his eyes, and he made tracks quick across there.'’ 

She looked across there, but the river-fog had 
blotted him out. She pointed, but the white man’s 
gaze did not turn from her. 

'‘And you are ” 

“Venda, master,” answered the woman, with 
one beseeching look upward to him ; and then, as 
he looked at her with only curious interest, she 
dropped her head and crossed her hands on her 
breast. 

"Venda; it is a good name, girl. Are you 
free?” 

“ No, master. V enda not want freedom ; Venda 
in happy home.” 

" Ah !” And he gazed at her as though weigh- 
ing all her words, and the honesty of them. Might 
this assault be only a trick? Might the woman 
be a spy who helped her work by doing him a 
service? "If your home is happy why do you 
walk abroad when all home-loving people are 
sleeping in their beds?” 

She hesitated, and then touched her brow with 
her finger in mute token of submission, and looked 
up at him. 

"Master, last night I slept in my bed — my 
first sleep in a bed that was new to me. In that 
sleep I saw a man whose heart was angry walk 



Before him there stood only a slave-woman with white hair and the 
splintered stick in her hand 




THE MAN ROCHELLE 


191 


on these shores with a danger hanging from 
above. All day has Venda kept the dream in her 
breast, and when the night crept along and was 
old she comes here alone to see. So it is, master.’’ 

‘'You are voudou?” 

“So the people say to each other.” And for 
the first time something like a smile came about 
her lips. 

“Venda, and a voudou,” he persisted; “and 
what else?” 

“Faithful,” she said; and the words were low 
but earnest, and her hands clasped each other 
tightly. “Faithful if there ever comes a day 
when you want one you can trust.” 

“And all this because of a dream, Venda?” 

“ Yes ” — and her eyes met his with a sad, curi- 
ous look in them — “all this because of a dream, 
master — a dream.” 

“Well,” — and he shrugged his shoulders and 
thrust a hand in his pocket — “if you wanted 
freedom I would try and give it to you because of 
the good turn your dream has done me to-night ; 
but since you are not to be bought, you will take 
a few coins in memory of the stranger? ” 

She set her teeth close, and shook her head. 

“ Venda needs no gold — not from you, master.” 

“Then what do you want?” he persisted. 
“People don’t lose their sleep for half a night, 
and all for naught, and for a stranger too.” 

“ Maybe — maybe not,” she answered, vaguely ; 
“but if you ask of Venda you will hear that her 


13 


192 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


head thinks strange things — maybe witch things. 
So she thinks to-night. She has spoken to you, 
master, and she thinks it will bring good luck. 
The good luck is better than gold-pieces.’’ 

“H’m! — perhaps.” And he kept watch on 
her from under those black brows. ‘'Do you 
choose to tell me any more of yourself ? ” 

“No, master. I dreamed, and I came here; 
that is all.” 

“If you ever see me again, will you, if you need 
help, remind me of this night, that I may repay 
you?” 

She raised her head quickly at that, and her 
eyes looked glad. 

“Yes, Master — Venda promise that; and she 
will take one coin if you will put a mark on it, 
and on the day when Venda shows it to you and 
asks a favor you will say, ‘ It shall be.’ ” 

“Agreed! This sounds like compacts with 
which the devil binds souls. Was it one of your 
imps you flung into the fog just now? But I’ll 
trust you if you will tell me one thing. Do you 
know who sent that man with the sand-bag?” 

She hesitated, and then said, “Venda have to 
say ‘ yes ’ and ‘ no ’ to that, master. She can’t tell 
who said the words, but she know that black man 
lives on Master Ronando’s plantation.” 

He nodded, and laughed silently. “ You’re hon- 
est voudou, Venda. Here is your piece of gold; 
it is already marked with a hole through the 
king’s head — some one trying to send him to 


THE MAN ROCHELLE 


193 


paradise by witchcraft, Eve no doubt. Now where 
will you go?'’ 

“Where you will, master." 

“Then I will that you go to that house of 
yours that you like better than freedom. Go! 
There is no danger for me in the night now; I 
have been warned. Go, and the saints be good 
to you, Venda." 

“No — no!" she muttered, and held up her 
hand. “ V enda know that church meaning ; don't 
say that to her. She don't ask you to say saints' 
words to her — no, no!" 

He caught her by the arm and turned her face 
with a certain roughness toward the pale moon. 

“You are a black woman, aren't you?" he de- 
manded, and then let her go, with an embarrassed 
laugh. “By heaven, you are such a cursedly 
strange creature that you start wild fancies in a 
man's head — you with your white hair and your 
fear of blessings ! If any one doubts that you are 
voudou send them to me, girl ; I am sure of it. 
Now adios!” 

“You will not forget the promise, and the hole 
through the king's head?" 

“ Never fear that I will forget the hole through 
the king's head." 

She drew a long breath of content, and bowing 
her head passed across the little circle of light 
and into the fog-land. On the verge of it she cast 
one glance backward. He was standing there in 


194 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


the same place as if watching her; then the veil 
of the mist fell between them. 

And as she walked swiftly onward her hands 
were locked close over her breast. Once she 
pressed the gold-piece to her lips. ‘‘ I have served 
him/' she muttered, ‘'truly served him, and he 
has given me a token. Ah, Venda, luck is yours 
since you threw away the knife of the man by the 
wine-shop — good to you. See that you are — 
faithful — faithful to — the dead!" 


CHAPTER IX 

THE VOUDOU 

In the days following, events proved the truth 
of the report that Monsieur Lamort was really 
bringing to light forgotten slave-laws and mak- 
ing revelations a thing of dread to more than one 
family. 

It was sad, indeed sad, lamented more than one 
member of the older families. That was always 
to be expected, however, from newcomers — they 
so often arrived on Orleans Island full of projects 
and ambitions for the bettering of things. It 
takes time to convince strangers that life in every 
land takes coloring from and adapts itself to the 
influences of the soil. It was folly to expect all 
at once a life in the new country like that in the 


THE VOUDOU 


195 


old. The laws? Oh, yes — the laws had been 
made, that was quite true, and they were well 
meant, unquestionably; but without doubt they 
had been suggested by just such zealous enthusi- 
asts as the good Monsieur Lamort himself. For 
had there not also been a law passed that the 
slaves must at a marriageable age be joined in 
wedlock, with a priest, so please you, to officiate ? 
Ah, there had been many a laugh in the colony 
over that law, and finally the king was convinced 
there would be wisdom in annulling it. 

But all were convinced that there yet remained 
many of those old musty laws that should be re- 
pealed. The sudden unearthing of Article 6 of 
the Black Code was an assurance of the fact 
to the colonists who owned slaves, and chose to 
keep them. 

And Chevalier Delogne in his capacity of sec- 
retary to Monsieur Lamort grew suddenly wise 
regarding the many technical points of law, and 
daily wondered at the vast amount of energy and 
zeal displayed by his chief for the thing he con- 
sidered justice. 

Well might his abode be termed the refuge of 
exiles, for truly there was no friendless outcast 
of any race or tribe who was not directed by some 
one to the house of Monseiur Lamort. 

And in the gardens where Felice and Basil had 
yenr<^ pledged their passionate love-vows 

there stalked the red men of the north asking 
counsel, the exiles of France asking friendship, 


196 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


and the ever-present black with his endless 
grievances. 

The owners of the blacks also came at times, 
discussed warmly some disputed point of right, 
and outwardly at least they conceded their full 
belief that the zeal of Monsieur Lamort arose 
from motives most Christian. 

But — well, even the zeal of the blessed apostles 
could easily grow into a nuisance if directed 
toward a new colony where one had to make the 
best one could of those animals — the blacks ! But 
if any of the planters ever thus expressed them- 
selves, Monsieur Lamort would only smile in his 
serious, courteous way, and chide them as might 
a priest for their shortsightedness. 

'‘Your children in the days to come will ap- 
prove if you do not to-day,’’ he contented himself 
with saying. And Delogne would marvel some- 
times at his patience. 

"Ah! monsieur, do you never lose your tem- 
per over anything? ” he asked one morning when 
an unusually tiresome audience had been given 
to a Dutchman of the river above. "I look at 
you in wonder.” 

"At your age I too would have marveled at 
patience,” nodded Lamort, with a smile. "Be- 
lieve me, no one is born with it.” 

" Glad am I of that assurance. Monsieur Lam- 
ort,” said a voice back of them, and Constante 
Raynel came forward. "Were you discussing 
state secrets? If so I will retire, and proceed 


THE VOUDOU 


197 


to forget your words. But I need patience so 
sadly myself, and was sent into this world so 
lacking it, that it is a consolation to know it is 
a thing which grows by length of days, and that 
I am not entirely peculiar in that respect.’’ 

''What is your quarrel now against life?” 
asked Lamort. "Does our old earth go round 
too slowly to suit your fancy, or has some model 
failed at the moment when genius burned within 
you and you desired to catch all the beauty of life 
for some picture?” 

"Oh, yes; you may laugh, and fancy Raynel 
is the one soul on earth exempt from care,” he 
retorted; "but I assure you I have my troubles 
too — very serious ones.” 

"Ah! Which portrait did you commence?” 
asked Delogne, slyly, and laughed aloud when the 
artist answered, with ill-concealed irritation: 

" Madame Zanalta’s.” 

" I knew it — I was sure of it ! Ah, my painter 
of beauty, you have made a little purgatory for 
yourself while you are yet alive, and heartily do 
I wish that the lesson may teach you something 
of that patience whose lack you deplore.” 

"Nay, Maurice,” objected Monsieur Lamort. 
"You surely attribute Monsieur Raynel’s impa- 
tience to the wrong cause ; for what gallant would 
ask greater happiness than to paint the likeness 
of liis lady-love? I am loath to leave at the mo- 
ment you make your call, my dear sir, but I am 
expected in the town — so au revoir!” 


198 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


Constante bowed with commendable self-pos- 
session, but bit his lip as he discerned the humor- 
ous twitch of the suave Frenchman’s cheek, and 
stamped across the room twice after his exit ere 
he would trust himself to speak. 

There ! do you see that ? ” he demanded. '' Did 
you note his meaning? What wonder that I am 
half distracted! By heavens! if the banns of — 
of that antique and myself had been read from 
the altar, people could not take more fully in ear- 
nest the fact that I belong to her.” 

‘‘And does that disturb you, mon amif asked 
Delogne, trying to look serious, and sorting some 
papers in a little mahogany case. “ Do you fear 
the lady will beat a retreat because of the general 
acceptance of the fact?” 

“A retreat?” growled Constante. “Never! 
You don’t know her. Death and devils! — to 
think that I have crossed the seas only to fall into 
such fortune!” 

“Pray sit down and tell me your perplexities 
with more composure,” suggested Delogne. “ Are 
those sketches you carry? I should like to be al- 
lowed to look at them when I have finished with 
these documents.” 

Constante placed the portfolio on a couch of 
old Spanish leather, and made a circuit of the 
room, drawing back curtains, pushing aside dra- 
peries, and peering into every shadowy corner, 
while the chevalier followed him with eyes full 
of surprise. 


THE VOUDOU 


199 


On my life, but you assume strange habits in 
this new land,’' he commented. ''Will you be 
pleased to tell me for what you are searching?” 

"Assuredly; for something I am by no means 
anxious to find — that voudou creature with the 
white head. You are a braver man than I, 
Maurice, or you would not be living where that 
sphinx is one of the household. Ugh ! she makes 
my flesh creep if she only turns round and looks 
at me.” 

"But do you not perceive it would be impos- 
sible for her to be in that old water-pitcher?” 
laughed his friend; for Raynel was in all seri- 
ousness peering into a silver pitcher that would 
hold perhaps a gallon. 

"No; where she — he — or it — is concerned 
the word 'impossible' is not to be applied,” re- 
turned the searcher. " Have I not seen her sud- 
denly rise from a corner where no human thing 
was seen but an instant before ? Do you remem- 
ber our first evening here, and how suddenly she 
was in our midst when some one expressed a wish 
for her? No; if I rest myself here for a chat I 
have no desire that her Satanic majesty form one 
of the party. Pray tell me, does she ever in the 
world do aught but walk around and make music 
with her anklets?” 

"She is without exception the most devoted 
creature to her master that I have ever seen in my 
life," said Delogne, emphatically. "She seems 


200 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


to divine by a look the thing he wants, while to 
the other slaves he rnust speak.” 

If she would only speak occasionally she might 
seem a bit less horrible to me; but she moves 
about so silently, and looks at one in a way that 
says she could say so much if she only wished to. 
I tell you Fm as bad as the blacks; I would not 
meet that creature alone on a dark night — ugh ! ” 

And he shivered at the mere idea of it ; but hav- 
ing finished his survey, he seated himself and 
watched Delogne, who was looking at the sketches 
in the portfolio. 

“Some of these are very interesting sketches, 
Constante,” he acknowledged, with friendly pride ; 
“ quite the best things I have seen of yours ; and 
you have made these little studies in such a short 
space of time, too. I am glad to see you so indus- 
trious. But as I understand your present work 
to be of Senora Zanalta, how do you manage to 
accomplish favorable results from the sketches 
made of Madame Villette?” 

“ Eh ? Well — you see — ” Poor Raynel looked 
red and uncomfortable. 

“Oh, yes; quite clearly — case 999. And are 
these sketches the reason of your discontent with 
your present portrait work?” 

Constante groaned, and tramped about the 
room again. 

“I really wish you would not do that,” com- 
plained Delogne ; “ you are as bad for one’s nerves 
as the voudou woman. Ah, Constante, you are 


THE VOUDOU 


201 


ever a slave to the last glance shot at you — or 
the last hand you have kissed/’ 

'‘Slave! — not a bit of it,” denied the poor fel- 
low with unnecessary vehemence. " But what is 
a man to do when he is in a good working mood, 
and there is only one thing of beauty in range of 
his eyes — I ask you now, what is he to do?” 

" Just what you have done, I suppose,” assented 
his friend; "but does not Sehora Zanalta grow 
tired of posing while you make sketches of the 
younger lady ? ” 

"Tired! — you evidently have not the happi- 
ness of knowing Sehora Mercedes Zanalta very 
well. If she wears all her jewels, and her bro- 
cades, and has her hair dressed to her taste, she 
never grows tired — not for one instant will she 
leave that throne-like chair of hers, or the room.” 

"And Madame Villette?” 

"The most provoking, bewitching, and mis- 
chievous lady it has ever been my perplexity and 
fortune to meet. She assumes all the airs of a 
chaperon. On guard over a treasure I might be 
tempted to steal — think of it! She is gracious to 
me at times in a lofty manner, as though to remind 
me that I am after all only an artisan while she 
is a grand lady of rank — ah, this cursed caste! 
it rules here as in our own land. But then there 
are other times when she grows charming, and 
laughs like a child, and makes many a jest of both 
the portrait and artist, as though she knew that 
the work on it is not pleasant to me. She said 


202 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


to-day that of course she dared not hope that the 
portrait I am to make of her will be such a treas- 
ure as the one I am doing now, and that it was 
easy to perceive that my heart was in the work. 
Ah! women were given so many modes of war- 
fare.'’ 

''One can combat those who make war, and per- 
haps vanquish them," commented Delogne, with 
an impatient sigh ; " but how much more difficult 
when one’s fair adversary walks unconscious past 
you, or tells her beads when you would endeavor 
to meet her glance ! ’’ 

"So! — blows the wind with such violence in 
that direction ? Ah, well ; a novice can not prove 
nearly so vexatious as a widow — of that I am 
sure. But do you really mean that Mademoiselle 
Denise refuses to entertain any regard whatever 
for you — and after your saving her life, too?" 

" Entertain regard ! I have never yet dared to 
suggest such a thing. Indeed, she seems entirely 
unconscious of the fact that I am in the world. 
To be sure, she spoke sweetly that night — that 
one night ; but when I called to inquire about her, 
it was the lady abbess who received me, and be- 
stowed gracious thanks, but with it reared a wall 
of reserve concerning the mademoiselle, and 
mademoiselle herself has evidently acquired a 
share of it. She walks no more in the evenings, 
and she will not give me a look." 

" Willingly would I assist you if my wits would 
but tell me how. I might of course break an arm 



She dared not hope that the portrait I am to make of her will he such 
a treasure as the one I am doing now 


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THE VOUDOU 


203 


or two for you so that you could gain entrance 
to the hospital. You know she entertains a lively 
interest in cripples.’’ 

Possibly, but I would not put your friendship 
to such a test as maiming me ; and — ah, well — 
even that might fail to overcome her indifference. 
She simply does not think of me, and of course 
there is no visible reason why she should.” 

''How modest we are growing!” remarked 
Raynel mockingly. " But really it is a most fatal 
sign when one begins to fancy himself unfit even 
to be a lackey to his lady-love. I’ve felt so, often, 
but I always realize through that feeling that I 
am growing serious, and when one grows serious 
— well, the pain of love begins, and the laughter 
of it is ended.” 

"You speak as a professor of the art, if art it 
be,” remarked Delogne, with some displeasure ap- 
parent in his tone. "For my part, I should not 
fancy the love turned out by your academy. The 
lesson of love would surely read more musically 
from not having been studied at all.” 

" Interesting as the subject is, I fear we 
must defer it,” sighed Raynel, gathering up his 
sketches, "for see! there come some gentlemen. 
Is not one of them Sehor Ronando ? The other is 
Villeneuve.” 

"Yes; and a most pleasant gentleman. Of all 
the youth in this town I like him the best.” 

" And the other ? ” 

" Ah, I have not the privilege of knowing Sehor 


204 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


Ronando well.” And the chevalier went forward 
to meet the gentlemen, while Raynel smiled and 
told himself that, after all, Maurice might turn 
diplomat in the school of Orleans. 

“Gone out — gone out, has he?” sputtered 
Sehor Ronando, who was very fat and very short 
of breath. “Ah — ah! that is a disappointment. 
It is seldom I walk to any man's house, and now 
to find him out! Well, well, I will seat myself 
and recover my breath ; patience may come with 
it. And may 1 ask, my young sir, who you may 
be that receives guests in the absence of Monsieur 
Lamort ? ” 

“Allow me to remind you,” said Villeneuve, 
quickly, “ that this is the Chevalier Delogne, late 
of Versailles, and at present of the household of 
Monsieur Lamort. You met him but yesterday in 
the house of my father.” 

“ Possibly, possibly.” And the old gentleman 
took snuff with a fine air of indifference. “One 
can not remember all the new faces crowding into 
our town since this uproar commenced in France 
— a most ungodly country, let them say what 
they will. And so you are the newcomer whom 
Lamort honors with his confidence, eh? Yes, 1 
heard of it — a secretary. One would think he 
was the keeper of the colony that he must have 
so many helpers.” And the caller looked sharply 
at Constante, who returned his stare with great 
serenity. 

“Monsieur Lamort is certainly a very busy 


THE VOUDOU 


205 


man,” agreed Delogne, with cool courtesy, for 
Villeneuve's eyes mutely asked toleration for the 
old man ; and I am proud to be the assistant of 
one so worthy.” 

“Aye, aye, no doubt; but say what you will, it 
makes trouble in a country when any one wants 
business so much that he turns the laws topsy- 
turvy for pastime.” 

“Monsieur Lamort lives for more than pas- 
time,” remarked Raynel, coolly. “He evidently 
tries to improve his time, and times.” 

“Hah! what's that?” And Sehor Ronando 
whirled about, facing the speaker. “Since you 
have such learned ideas, I should like to know by 
what name you are called.” 

“ By the same as at this time yesterday, at which 
hour I had the honor to be introduced to you, 
Sehor Ronando,” returned Constante, and turned 
away after a bow excessively humble, while the 
impatient old gentleman blinked his eyes in utter 
astonishment. For Sehor Jesus Maria Pietro Ro- 
nando was a very great personage on his own 
lands, and was accustomed to much submission to 
his ideas. 

“ Humph ! More floatings from V ersailles,” he 
murmured audibly. “Well, Sir Secretary, can 
you give me an idea at what hour Monsieur La- 
mort will be pleased to return here? Gaston 
Villeneuve here will tell you I am not used to wait- 
ing in an anteroom for an audience.” 

“ Truly not,” the embarrassed Villeneuve 


206 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


agreed. “And may I beg to remind you, senor, 
that Chevalier Maurice Delogne is also unaccus- 
tomed to the speech one offers to an ordinary 
clerk. His family is noble as any in our land. 
Pray remember, my dear senor.’’ 

“Assuredly — yes,” returned the other, with 
slight attention. “Of late all who land with us 
are nobles, it seems; yet where is the advantage 
of noble blood when a stranger without family, 
a mercenary heretic, can land here and turn laws 
crooked with the power of a purse? Our family 
is older than the laws of Spain over this country, 
yet must I run to a newcomer if I want justice 
secured. Bah! even our governor is influenced 
by this lawmaker who prays in no church.” 

Villeneuve drew him to a window and spoke to 
him alone, trying to quell his impatience and ill 
temper; and the other two strove for the young 
man’s sake to give no heed to the very awkward 
comments. 

“An ill-trained bear native to this wilderness, 
I suppose,” remarked Raynel, who was more 
vexed than his friend. “ My only wonder is that 
the colony has allowed him to live so long. I have 
heard often of the beauty of Spanish courtesy. Is 
this the much-commended thing?” 

“Do not believe it,” said Delogne, decidedly. 
“He is a bully who scolds, who catches words 
from sailors, and tone from the northern English, 
and between them the grace of Spain is lost to 


THE VOUDOU 


207 


him — if he ever possessed it; but he is old, he is 
annoyed, so be heedless of him/’ 

Humph ! If I promise not to kill him it will 
be all my conscience will let me agree to,” decided 
Raynel, with a pantomime of pitching articles of 
furniture at the fat old aristocrat in the window 
who, for the moment forgetful of his companions, 
was viewing the grounds and property with the 
eyes of reminiscence. 

‘'This, too — one of the most excellent estates 
in the colony — it is grievous, Gaston, to think 
that it also is mastered by a newcomer. Oh, yes, 
I know he is thought much of by you and many of 
the others; but I am no courtier, I thank the 
saints ! I say what I choose when I have the rea- 
sons of a Christian. And if the dead could walk, 
then would Le Noyens surely come to protest 
against a heretic slave-law agitator dwelling 
under the roof built by him. Ah, he was a man 
for the country. Your father knew him well — a 
fair gentleman, who ruled the blacks by his nod, 
and would brook no word as to the mastering of 
his own household. Alas! I was like him once, 
but now I grow old.” 

“ I have heard much of the tragic story of his 
end,” returned Villeneuve, glad to keep the vin- 
dictive mind beside him engaged. “Was there 
not a song made of it? — as a child I heard one 
sung by my nurse. It was interminable, for each 
singer added to it as his fancy prompted him. I 


14 


208 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


know I was kept quiet many a time by our Susette 
chanting : 


Ohe! Bayarde the ranger 

Did the deed — the dark deed! 
Listen, children — listen, stranger I 
Never more will he be freed. 

Chains a-dragging 
All along the road. 

Back all broken 
Underneath the load. 

Listen, children! 

And take warning, 

Chained in the mine-land 
You never see the morning. 

Ohe — children! 

All good children!” 


The young man chanted the lines slowly, with 
sometimes a pause in the effort at remembrance, 
and the older gentleman nodded assent and beat 
time with his gold-crowned walking-stick. 

‘^You keep the swing of the old song well,’’ 
he said. “Yes, yes; every child heard it in that 
day, for the tragedy was a famous one because 
of the woman in it — there is always a woman, 
you know, in the troubles of every man; or 
maybe you do not know it yet, but you will.” 

Because of their position they had not ob- 
served Monsieur Lamort, who had entered and 
halted only a few steps from them, and who now 
came forward with his usual quiet courtesy. 

“Monsieur Delogne wished to apprise you of 
my return, but I motioned for silence that I might 
the better hear the strange folk-song you were 


THE VOUDOU 


209 


singing. It is something native to the soil, I 
imagine?'’ 

''Yes; the rhymed history of a tragedy Sehor 
Ronando was recalling to my mind. Among the 
illiterate here that fashion of memorizing is 
quite popular. An elopement, a murder, or even 
a grand wedding is made into song and sung to 
the children ; it is their only way of handing dowM 
traditions, and is very popular among the black 
people." 

"I have heard of their custom." And Mon- 
sieur Lamort looked like one who is striving to 
be interested while the mind is really in some 
other channel. " And this song, is it of a grand 
wedding — and the histories of all the children 
that result? One of those songs I have heard 
here; it told of a family for three generations." 

"On the contrary, this one is of murder and 
exile," answered Sehor Ronando. " A well- 
earned exile, in which I am proud to say I as- 
sisted — a foul murder of a gallant gentleman." 

"Ah! You had personal knowledge of this 
particular tragedy? I understand, then, the in- 
terest of Monsieur Villeneuve in the song. Has 
it a name? " 

"'Bayarde, the Ranger,' is the only one by 
which I ever heard it called," answered the young 
man. " And many a doleful moment did I pass 
when as a child I heard that song of the chains, 
and the mines where the sunlight was never 
supposed to penetrate. It brought me the first 


210 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


suggestionof lifelong punishment that ever came 
to me. Such things are landmarks in the thought 
of a child.’’ 

''Truly they are,” assented Lamort, and 
glanced at Delogne. "It seems, Chevalier, that 
we are to hear much of this De Bayarde, though 
so little of the more respectable bearer of the 
name; but faults will win attention, while vir- 
tues are too often unheeded.” 

"Bosh!” And Sehor Ronando showed in his 
fat face his satisfaction at possessing knowledge 
beyond the rest. "That may be a fact, but in 
this case it was not the crime he committed which 
made him famous in the provinces, but the fact 
that the daintiest sehorita in all these lands had 
opened her lattice for his serenades — that is the 
thing which made him talked of; and strange 
stories were afloat of dawns when she had been 
seen stepping from his canoe and speeding 
through these gardens to a door left open. And 
there must have been some truth in it, else would 
she have gone mad, as they say she did? ” 

" The horror of the murder may have been suf- 
ficient reason for that,” suggested Delogne. But 
the senor looked his displeasure at having the 
truth of his theory questioned in the slightest. 

"I have reasons for my suppositions, young 
sir,” he said, tartly. " Her uncle was my friend 
— yes, gentlemen, my friend, and a true son of 
the church — the saints find him rest ! So I was 
one who knew her only female relative in this 


THE VOUDOU 


211 


land; and that lady, Madame Solle (dead these 
several years), took charge of her, and had a 
grievous time of it, by her own statement, for 
the girl Felice raved for months, shouting for 
'Basir — that was the fellow’s name — until the 
blacks feared to sleep in the house with her. She 
could not be kept in the town at all, and so was 
taken miles up the river to a small plantation of 
the Solle family. Her grave is there, they say, 
and I suppose that of her child. 

'' Child ! Oh, I never heard of that,” said Ville- 
neuve; and Sehor Ronando blinked with unc- 
tuous satisfaction. 

thought not. I thought I could tell you 
something of that story — something you had 
never heard. Well, the family is all gone now; 
none is left to bear the disgrace. But, ah ! how 
Madame Solle raved over it! My wife lived 
then; she was her confidante — she knew. And 
when they died, Felice and her ranger’s brat, 
Madame Solle had them interred on the planta- 
tion, with never a white friend near, not even a 
priest. But, then, the poor woman was half mad 
herself, and no one judged her harshly. For if 
the soul of Felice was lost for lack of the sacra- 
ments — well, it was only a fault of her own. To 
think of such a fine creature turning into a light 
love for a voyageur — those animals who have a 
wife in each Indian tribe they visit! Was it not 
deplorable ? ” 

'' Such things always are,” assented Monsieur 


212 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


Lamort. “And yet — well, they have been, and 
will be/’ 

But he sighed as he spoke, and his face looked 
as sad as his words. Delogne, glancing at him, 
thought what a generous heart was his that had 
a sigh and a tone of compassion for the actors 
in that long-dead tragedy. 

“Will you not be seated, monsieur?” he asked, 
coming forward with a chair. “You have per- 
haps walked rapidly and grown tired, for you 
are paler than when you went out.” 

Lamort wheeled about as though vexed at 
being supposed feeble, but recovering himself, de- 
clined the profifered courtesy with a gesture. 

“Thanks, Chevalier; I am a little tired, but 
that is no excuse for my resting so early in the 
day. I only returned because I heard Sehor 
Ronando had come this morning to make me a 
special business visit. So, my dear sehor, I have 
postponed my other work for this part of the day, 
and am at your service.” 

“Work, work!” grunted Ronando, with grim 
lips. “ Has Orleans Island become such a place 
of turmoil that all repose is driven from it by this 
eagerness to work ? Monsieur Lamort, when our 
hair gets gray we have surely earned the right 
to sit in the shade and leave the work to younger 
hands.” 

“ Right enough,” assented the other ; “ and yet 
a slothful old age is a bad example for youth to 
pattern from, and some men love action better 


THE VOUDOU 


213 


than repose. I, perhaps, am one of them. And 
now that I am here, tell me in what way I can 
serve you.’’ 

Sehor Ronando blinked at him in indecision. 
He did not fancy much this courteous newcomer 
who parried his thrusts of speech and was so 
confident of himself. 

''Well, monsieur, I must tell you that I — that, 
in fact, Don Diego Zanalta was to have met me 
here. He knows my business, and knows more 
of law crooks than do I. Cannot we await his 
arrival?” 

"Assuredly. Meanwhile we will have a glass 
of wine in the court within. The air is more 
pleasing there, I fancy. Will you come with us, 
young gentlemen, or have you other plans of 
entertainment? ” 

" I have those papers yet to arrange,” said De- 
logne. "Our artist here is going to attempt a 
sketch of Monsieur Villeneuve, and as the break- 
fast-room has the best light they were about to 
ask possession of it.” 

"At their service — all my house,” nodded La- 
mort, and led Senor Ronando through the arched 
door into the court where the palms grew, and 
where blossoms hung heavy and fragrant against 
the lattice-work of the verandas. 

Delogne was left sorting the papers according 
to the labels. Several of them, tied with black 
cord and yellow and brittle with age, were to go 
in a case by themselves; the rest were to go in 


214 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


the great locked drawers of a mahogany cabinet 
standing against the wall. 

Having concluded the task, he looked in vain 
for the key to the drawers ; but it had been mis- 
laid. He looked on the cabinet, even in the port- 
folio on the couch, and felt in his pockets. 

Then he remembered he had changed his coat 
just before Constante had entered, and the key 
had no doubt been left in the other garment. 

He had but left the room when Raynel re-en- 
tered. 

“Where are those drawings, Maurice? Oh, 
here they are, though you are not.” And he 
bent over the portfolio to select certain bits of 
paper. 

Suddenly the couch on which the drawing lay, 
moved. He had not touched it; he knew he had 
not touched it, yet it had certainly moved, and 
toward him. 

He passed his hand over his hair as though to 
level the curls suddenly bristling, and his eyes 
grew wondrous large as he let fall the drawings 
and stepped backward, for not only the couch but 
a bear’s hide seemed possessed by something in- 
fernal and moved on the floor. 

And then, carelessly uncoiling, Venda arose be- 
fore him, and stooped to pick up the scattered 
drawings — never speaking. She looked at him 
over her shoulder, and he thought she was laugh- 
ing at him. Really she was not, but his intense 
dread of her made everything she did significant 


THE VOUDOU 


215 


to him. When she stood before him and offered 
him the bits of paper, he seized them and made a 
detour for the door, not desiring even to turn his 
back on her. 

But on reaching the threshold his eyes wan- 
dered an instant from her white-framed face of 
bronze to that spot where she had lain flat on the 
floor beneath the skin of the black bear. He 
would not have been much surprised to see num- 
berless little black imps of darkness creep forth 
in her wake, all with shiny, strange eyes and 
white hair, or to have them form around the 
couch where he had been seated and expressed 
adverse criticism on that voudou. He had never 
before thought himself a coward, but a most 
troublesome trembling seized his knees, and a 
chill of horror overcame him as he remembered 
his words ; he hastened back to his waiting model, 
with the self-query as to whether it would be 
possible to frustrate by either charms or prayers 
the potency of voudou spells. 

But Venda gave little heed to his presence. She 
sat again on the rug near the couch where she 
muttered, rocking from side to side, and nodding 
her head as though some feeling — it seemed 
anger — was too strong in her for utter silence. 

If Constante could have seen her thus! Then 
another step sounded on the tiled floor, and she 
turned with eager eyes to the door. 

'' Master, my master she said, in a tone of 
veneration so profound as to resemble that of a 


216 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


pagan who bows to an idol. And as he entered 
she moved to him in silence, but with haste. 

''You, Venda?’' he observed, with that gra- 
cious manner he always had for his bond-slaves. 
He was to Venda as to the others, though he 
watched her with more interest than the other 
blacks — she suggested so much more; and then 
she was ever so strangely near when he needed 
her. 

"Yes, master,” she answered, bending before 
him and holding her hands tight-clasped, as one 
who would put restraint upon herself. "Is Venda 
needed ? ” 

" Some one is, and you are ever nearest to my 
hand,” he replied. " We want coffee there in the 
court. You made it pleasant to the taste yester- 
day; bring us more like that. I looked in here 
for Chevalier Delogne. Send him to me if he is 
within, and then bring the coffee.” 

"Yes, master. Master — ” 

She stopped and looked at him with a gaze so 
concentrated, so searching, that he unconsciously 
stepped back from her. 

"Speak, Venda! What have you to say to 
me?” 

"What I say to you? Oam-me! The words, 
they here,” and she pointed to her throat. " They 
don’t come clear, maybe; but, master — good 
Master Lamort, you called just — you called 
right — but you drink coffee with that” — and 
she pointed with growing rage toward Sehor 


THE VOUDOU 


217 


Ronando — you drink friends with him ? I look 
in your eyes, but no see. Master, Venda see some 
things clear; she see pain long ago — long ago 
when that man judge, when that man help put 
chains on where they no have right. She hear 
lady scream all the night, like he laugh and tell of 
— scream for the man they put in chains. Mas- 
ter, he comes to ask favor of you — much favor. 
Hate is in his heart, but he asks favor. When he 
says the words, when he waits for you to speak, 
oh, master, think in your heart of the man who 
laughed at the cries of the lily-white lady. Mas- 
ter, he has ever been as a tiger in a jungle; every 
fawn drinking at the brook was food for him; 
every fruit ripening in the sun he put out his 
hand to. So he put out his hand to the sweet 
Ma’m'selle Felice. So he wrongs her in his 
words because she did walk ever away from him 
as one walks from a snake if it comes close with 
its poison. So it is with the father, so it is with 
the son. Oh, master! you smile kind on him, 
and Venda — Venda afraid! But when he ask 
favor of you — favor for his son there at the 
judge place — then — then do not forget the lily 
Lady Felice, and the judges who said, ‘Let him 
suffer.’ Oh, master — ” 

“ Cease ! ” commanded her master, and his voice 
was low and strained. His face, pale before, was 
colorless under the fierceness and pleading of her 
words. He stood quite still looking at her, when 
all at once his eyes closed; he staggered slightly, 


218 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


reaching out his hand mechanically as though for 
support. 

But he did not fall, only leaned on her quickly 
proffered shoulder, and passed his hand over his 
eyes — a hand cold and damp, as she found when 
it touched her own. Then, with an effort, he 
drew himself erect with a determined air and 
walked unaided to the couch. 

‘'Some hate of yours has made you blindly 
mad, I fear, Venda,’’ he said, reprovingly, “and 
I am not well enough for agitating discussions 
this morning So, if, in the future, you have a 
cause to plead, pray do so with less violence, and, 
remember, no more words such as you spoke 
just now; they are useless. I have decided what 
I shall do, and words from others will have no 
weight. You make good coffee, Venda, but when 
I want your advice on other things I will ask for 
it. Now go, my good girl ; make the coffee, but 
I warn you if you should think of putting into it 
poison for Sehor Ronando that I am to drink 
it, too.” 

He spoke lightly, but did not look at her. His 
head was bent on his hand in an attitude of weari- 
ness ; but he could not help seeing that the strange 
vengeful creature knelt for one instant beside him 
as at an altar, and then passed out as she was 
bidden. Over her lips was pressed one of her 
hands. He felt strangely the sense of her devo- 
tion to him, but did not know it was the hand his 


ECHOES FROM THE PAST 


219 


own fingers had touched when he reached out to 
her for support. 


CHAPTER X 

ECHOES FROM THE PAST 

In the garden of the Ursulines there walked 
in the sweet breath of the early day two women. 
One, a sad-eyed, beautiful woman, whose expres- 
sion was one of peaceful repose, spoke earnestly 
to the other, who was Denise. 

'‘But, my child, I am not supreme here; it is 
to our mother superior you must go for direction 
in this. And if the man only look at you — 

"Ah, Sister Andrea, he has spoken often — 
words such as are used by courtiers, I think, but 
I fear them — I fear them ! All the more since 
that night when the blacks seized me. I dare not 
accuse him lest I be wrong, yet I feel that only 
he could have done it ; and when I met him last 
evening I grew ill and weak at the look in his 
eyes. People say he is a good Catholic, and he 
does give to my poor, yet do I fear he is evil.’’ 

"Your heart tells you truly,” said Sister An- 
drea, thoughtfully. "Then why not leave the 
charity work to others who would be in less dan- 
ger?” 

" But my poor people would miss me — I would 


220 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


miss them/' answered the girl, quickly. “ That is 
why I fear to go to our mother ; she is so decided. 
She would say, ‘Well, since you are afraid, I will 
give you a class to teach, and you need never go 
outside the gate.' But I love to pass the gate; of 
course, I am glad to come back to it again, but 
sometimes I fear it would not be so dear to me if 
I was once bound to remain within it always. It 
is wicked of me, perhaps, sister" — and she 
bowed her head humbly — “but I do not think I 
could be happy under bonds of any kind, not even 
of the convent. I want to do the work of it al- 
ways, but I want to work free. That is self-pride, 
I know, and it is strong in me." 

“It is strong in all youth," agreed the older 
woman. “The years wear it away, however, 
from many hearts. It may prove so with you, so 
be not vexed with yourself." 

“ Ah, sister, you are ever kind to my faults, ever 
making me excuse myself." And Denise pressed 
fondly the hand of the nun. “ I never knew what 
a mother was, but I used to long blindly for a 
mother's love — always, always I would dream of 
a face I thought my mother's. But in the year of 
the great sickness here, when you came from the 
convent across the water, and, looking in my eyes, 
said, ‘ I am glad you are the convent child, for I 
shall love to have you near me' — well, dear Sis- 
ter Andrea, I never longed so for a mother after 
that; but at times a great dread comes over me 
that you may leave us, too, at some distant call 


ECHOES FROM THE PAST 


221 


of distress, and then — then this island would 
seem to me desolate as the winter-time of the 
north country/’ 

A faint smile, caressive as an embrace, hovered 
on the beautiful lips of Sister Andrea. 

“Fear no sorrow until it touches you, Denise,” 
she said, gently. “ But we need never be far apart 
in this world if we wish to be together. Have 
you never known that in all my eight years of 
life here my bonds to the order have been so lax 
that I am allowed to follow my own desires as to 
my place of abode ? I wished it so at first that I 
might be free to offer my help in sickness or bat- 
tle — any place my conscience and duty led me. 
So you see, my child, my bonds are scarcely 
stronger than your own. I go where my duty 
calls me.” 

“Ah, sister! — and I never knew! Do you 
know I am happy at what you tell me — and also 
astonished? You nurse the sick, you are devoted 
to good, but you never go without the gates; I 
always thought you had taken vows never to look 
beyond these walls.” 

“No; those vows were not for me. But this 
morning we were to speak of you, not of myself. 
I am concerned because of the persecution of this 
Sehor Zanalta. I would we had the advice of 
some one out in the world, some one who could 
not be awed by his position.” 

“ I know of such an one — of two, but it would 
ill become a maid to seek them; at least our 


222 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


mother spoke chidingly once because he walked 
home with me in the dark, or rather because he 
called to see me the day after/' 

''Ah! — he?" And the eyes of Sister Andrea 
smiled at the shy confession. "You commenced 
to tell me of two, and end by speaking of only 
one. Have they names ? " 

"Monsieur Victor Lamort is the other," ex- 
plained the girl, with an appealing upward glance. 

"The other — and who is the one?" 

" Ah, sister, it amuses you to confuse me, and 
in truth it is not hard to do; but I spoke of the 
gentleman, a chevalier of France, who came to 
my rescue that night, he and his friend — the 
name is Delogne." 

"Yes, yes! and they are at once knights of 
chivalry to maidenhood. You need not blush, 
child ; only it is well to remember, Denise, that a 
foundling of the convent gate and a chevalier of 
France are widely set apart by the rules of the 
world he lives in — do you understand?" 

"Yes, sister" — and the young face was not so 
rosy as she bowed her head — "I hear, and will 
remember. It was so that the good mother ad- 
monished me after she had spoken with him, but 
her words hurt more than yours, dear Sister 
Andrea." 

"Well, well; our mother superior has many 
things to think of where we have only one, 
Denise, and we must save her anxiety when we 
can. Now, why not confess to Monsieur Lamort 


ECHOES FROM THE PAST 


223 


that you have a suspicion as to your assailant 
that night on his grounds ? You say he is a pow- 
erful man, and has even asked how he could serve 
you.’’ 

‘‘ Yes, it is true,” assented Denise. But, sis- 
ter, I heard words but yesterday that make me 
feel strangely about him. I admire him very 
much; but the world is so wicked that no one — 
not even he — can escape suspicion.” 

''How so? Tell me what has occurred. Your 
words of that man have ever been those of rev- 
erence.” 

" Yes, and even now — but listen : It was down 
where the fever sickness is so prevalent; I was 
there. Two men from the boats talked of mon- 
sieur. I could hear their words : one said he was 
very kind with his gold ; another said it was only 
a trick by which to win the love of the poor and 
gain votes and influence with the people against 
the time when it would please him to reach for 
position in this land. One said, ' Have you noted 
that he has ever a most fatherly smile for our con- 
vent child?’ and another said, ‘Aye; he knows 
there are scores among the poor who would take 
her word as their law, so he would win even 
her.’ ” 

"Well,” said Sister Andrea, as the other 
halted, "is that all? They were, perhaps, simply 
making talk, as idle men will, to help to pass the 
time.” 

"I know — so I thought; but even as I left 


15 


224 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


there I met monsieur. He was kind; he asked 
after the sick, and then — then he spoke of their 
affection for me, of my influence for good over 
them, and of certain ways in which they needed 
to be influenced ; of the rights of the poor whites 
and the freed blacks, who were each subject to 
many indignities escaped by those possessing the 
saving-power of gold or of caste. He talked 
wisely, no doubt, but I was thinking more of the 
words of the other men than of his; and sorry 
was I to think that perhaps they spoke the truth, 
and that every smile he has given me was not 
for Denise, but for the sake of some law of which 
she knows nothing.’’ 

Her face was flushed, and her lips were trem- 
bling. Sister Andrea was astonished to see tears 
in her eyes. 

‘‘What, Denise! You care so much? I will 
come to believe, indeed, that this wise Monsieur 
Lamort is a wizard who charms people. Lend 
not your thoughts to suspicion of those you love, 
child. Of all emotions of the heart it is the one 
most miserable. And what if this good gentle- 
man should show you how to serve those who 
need help? It is not as if the cause was an un- 
worthy one.” 

“No, sister — but — ” 

“ But you are very much of a woman, after 
all, Denise,” said Sister Andrea. “You have 
grown so worldly during one springtime that 
you fancy even this gray-haired diplomat should 


ECHOES FROM THE PAST 


225 


forget his cares when you are in his vision. Fie! 
child ; I did not fancy you so vain.’’ 

It pleases you to tease me, and I can not set 
myself right,” declared the girl, ‘‘because I can 
not tell what it is I feel when he looks at me. He 
kissed my hand that night at his house — see! — 
just here; and I press it over my cheek every 
night ere I sleep. Nay, do not reprove,” as Sis- 
ter Andrea was about to speak. “ I can tell you 
as I can no other ; but it is only that he looks in 
that grand house as though his heart was lonely 
and sad. He looks at me, and I want to put out 
my hands and comfort him.” 

“ And this of a grande monsieur who lives like 
a prince, they say! Truly it is a strange impulse. 
Your hands have until now gone out only to the 
poor and sick. Do not be won from them to the 
palaces, child. But it seems to me this gentlemen 
is most worthy; the oppressed have many bless- 
ings for him. And since you prefer not to go 
to the priest — ” 

“ He drinks wine and laughs late with Don 
Zanalta,” answered Denise shaking her head. 

“Well, then speak to this gentlemen whose 
gray hair and kind words have won your sym- 
pathy. Tell him I — a nun here — advised you to 
go to him, as you are fatherless, motherless, and 
need advice beyond my knowledge. He knows 
the town and its dangers. We will rest on his 
judgment, Denise, for a woman shut out from 
the world, as I am, may not advise you wisely. 


226 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


My heart makes me fearful. I would gather you 
close to me, close these gates, and never let the 
eyes of men rest on you ; but that might not re- 
sult in either happiness or great good to you, dear. 
No ; we will speak to the stranger.’' 

Peculiarly intimate were the relations of those 
two, considering the fact that each wore the con- 
vent garb — the robes that are recognized bar- 
riers against worldly personal loves; but Denise 
has explained her own attraction to the beautiful 
sad-eyed nun, and Sister Andrea — well, from the 
day when she had stepped ashore there, sent 
from a convent in old Madrid in the time of a 
great sickness eight years before, from that day 
when Denise had met her just inside the gate 
and ofifered her a lily, her heart had gone out to 
the lovely little one who had never known any 
home but the convent walls, and their liking had 
grown with the years until their love was that 
of sisters in truth. 

And so it was at the suggestion of Sister An- 
drea that Denise took the path to the gardens of 
Monsieur Lamort. 

She went alone, as a boy might have done, for 
the foundling of the convent had never a duenna 
to guard her ; the dress of a novice had ever been 
respected but that one night. 

And was it so strange that all unexpected she 
should have come face to face with Chevalier De- 
logne at the arbor of the very first gate? For is 
there not ever a certain guardian spirit of life 


ECHOES FROM THE PAST 


227 


over all? and it draws so surely youth to meet- 
ings with fair youth. Delogne arose as one who 
has dreamed of some sweet thing come true, and 
looked in her face with eyes that said, At last ! 

trust that I did not startle you, mademoi- 
selle ? he asked, as the slow pink crept up to her 
cheek. I sit often in this arbor with a volume 
for company, though my eyes and thoughts wan- 
der far beyond the parchment at times.’’ 

''Yes,” remarked the girl, glancing about. 
"You can see the water across there on which 
the ships go out to sea, and across to your own 
land ; it is natural you should watch it with fond- 
ness.” 

"True, mademoiselle; but I can see two ways, 
and the other is across to the sacred place where 
your days are lived. I can often discern forms 
passing to and fro, and test my wits to discover 
if one be you.” 

"There are many besides myself there, mon- 
sieur, and all of more importance,” she returned, 
walking slowly beside him to the house. 

"I dare not contradict you lest you show me 
disfavor. Mademoiselle Denise, but will content 
myself with protesting that as I do not know the 
other excellent ladies and have been privileged to 
know you — a little — of course, it is your face I 
strive to discover and not that of a stranger.” 

The girl could make no reply to that — she felt 
confused; she knew the good mother superior 
would not approve, and yet she could not be rude. 


228 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


and the conscience-troubling thought was the cer- 
tainty that she did not wish to be. It was en- 
trancing thus to walk under the whispering leaves 
keeping pace with the step of another who spoke 
with all-caressing deference to her. Her heart 
beat quickly, and her hand crept to her rosary. 

He looked at her. They were nearing the door ; 
a few moments and there would be no more words 
alone. 

'‘Will you never speak to me when we meet by 
chance ? ’’ he asked, gently ; and she did not raise 
her head. 

" I have spoken to you this morning.’’ 

"Yes, this once, a few words; but, ah, made- 
moiselle, do you never give a kind glance to any 
but the invalids or the very aged? A man in a 
strange land can starve for kind words as surely 
as the poor people whom you befriend grow 
hungry for the taste of meats.” 

"But you are not alone — you have friends — 
they are attached to you.” 

"Friends — oh, yes; Monsieur Lamort and my 
dear Raynel. But it is ever the sympathy just 
beyond us for which we yearn.” 

" I suppose you mean gentlemen when you say 
‘we,’” she answered, with a delightfully prim 
little manner obtained from correcting at times 
the younger pupils of the classes. "But ingrati- 
tude is most lamentable, and surely the friend- 
ship of Monsieur Lamort is a thing to be satisfied 
with.” 


ECHOES FROM THE PAST 


229 


''Ungrateful! You think I make a low estF 
mate of his kindness because I long for some- 
thing more sweet? Ah, mademoiselle, if you 
would but be a little gracious, you would find me 
grateful, I promise you/ ’ 

"I am not a fine lady, monsieur, from whom 
courtiers beg grace,'’ she said, as they reached the 
doorway, and her face grew more decided as she 
looked up once at him. " I am only Denise of the 
convent, and know but little of the world's ways ; 
but this I believe, that he who is not satisfied with 
that which he has would not be content with that 
which he thinks he would like to have." 

And then she passed before him and entered 
the hall leading to the court where the palms 
drooped their feathery fans; and under their 
shifting shadows sat the man of whom she had 
come to speak, Don Zanalta, and beside him, with 
a cigarette between his fingers, stood Monsieur 
Lamort. 

She saw it all in an instant, before she was 
herself observed, and stepped back in the shadows 
out of range of their eyes. Was it for this she 
had chosen Monsieur Lamort instead of the con- 
vivial Father Joseph? To her eyes there must be 
close friendship when Monsieur Lamort smiled 
thus down on the dark head of Zanalta ; and her 
resolve was taken quickly — she would not speak 
of the errand for which she had come. 

She could not hear the words of the man 


230 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


standing there, or guess that he was refusing a 
boon the other had striven for. 

''No, my dear Zanalta,’' he was saying, with 
that decided voice but easy smile, "I can not 
move in this matter if I would, and I have not 
yet obtained any evidence to convince me that I 
should.'’ 

"But I assure you, though the letter of the 
law will oblige the Alcaldes to give judgment 
against Ronando, their sympathies will be with 
him." 

" All the better for him ; then he will have no 
difficulty in posing as a martyr." 

"But, truly, do you care not at all that the 
prejudice of the nobles will be turned against 
you?" 

"Will that also result?" asked Lamort, with a 
curious smile. "Do they then dislike justice so 
heartily? Ah, well, perhaps that creole slave, the 
mother of Ronando’s child, may have a good 
word for me at the day of judgment; it may even 
weigh against those of the voluptuous nobles." 

" But if she be content — " 

" Content to be beaten like a beast by him in his 
drunken fits ! Pray speak no more of it, my dear 
sir. The things I learned of that plantation are 
not pleasant to dwell on. And, by the way, can 
you tell me from whom Colonel Durande pur- 
chased that adjoining plantation — the one that 
lies between your own and Ronando's?" 

"I forget the name — something like Semour. 





I am only Denise of the convent, and I know but little of 

the world's ways 





ECHOES FROM THE PAST 


231 


I have it on papers at my house, for we had 
trouble once with this same Durande over the 
boundary-lines, and I am still convinced that he 
holds many acres which by right belong to my 
plantation. I would like your judgment on the 
question some day.’" 

It is at your service. Let me know any time I 
can befriend you.’’ 

‘‘Have I not let you know this morning?” re- 
torted Zanalta. “And you closed your heart 
against my plea, just as you did to old Sehor 
Ronando yesterday. He is angry and astounded 
that he has been refused consideration.” 

The two men passed out by another door to the 
garden, and did not perceive the girl, who stood 
uncertain which way to turn; uncertain what to 
say to Delogne, to whom she had motioned for 
silence, and who stood silently watching her, and 
showing plainly that he was puzzled. 

And then from among the palms Venda walked, 
a brighter-faced Venda than usual, and Denise, 
with a little gasp of relief, pointed to her. 

“You will pardon me, monsieur, but it is this 
woman with whom I would speak. I did not 
want to interrupt the gentlemen, but Venda will 
understand.” 

He noticed her embarrassment, but bowed and 
placed a seat for her, then moved away into the 
court. And the slave-woman stood before her 
with questioning eyes. 

“Venda, you will think it strange that I have 


232 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


nothing to say to you, only to trust you a little. I 
would not go forward to speak to your new mas- 
ter because — because your former master was 
there, too, and I could not explain to Monsieur 
Delogne ; but you, V enda, maybe you know with- 
out my explaining.’’ 

‘‘ Venda knows; you have wise thoughts, little 
mistress — Venda see that, too. And your 
tongue has been still about the night out there by 
the garden; but be not afraid — Venda watch, 
Venda make sign to you if danger comes, sure! 
You trust?” 

Yes.” And the girl felt a weight lifted from 
her heart at the words of the woman. ‘'You 
know what — who — I fear. I came to tell mon- 
sieur, but I will not now — perhaps I can another 
day; until then I trust you.” 

“And is there any other thing Venda may do 
for you?” 

The girl arose, smiling, and shook her head. 

“ Then please, little mistress, you do something 
for slave Venda — little bit. To-day she like to 
ask how you be convent child ? ” 

“Would you care to hear?” asked Denise, and 
sat again to talk. “Well, the story is not a long 
one, Venda. In the time of good Mother Agnace 
I was left at the convent gate ; that was all.” 

“You little then?” 

“Very little, only a baby.” 

“No one know where you come from?” 


ECHOES FROM THE PAST 


233 


‘‘No one, Venda. Some thought Mother Ag- 
nace knew, but she died before I could talk; she 
told the sisters, however, that I was to take vows 
when I grew old enough — when I was eighteen ; 
that is over a year yet. So you see I have not a 
long story to tell you. Why do you care to 
know 

“Um! Nothing much.’' But the woman’s 
eyes searched her face with so keen a scrutiny 
that the girl drew back, startled by the intensity 
of it ; and then she saw Lamort and Zanalta, who 
stood in the door as though they had stopped to 
look at the picture made by the two figures. 

Zanalta had his hat in his hand about to de- 
part, and an unpleasant smdle touched his lips as 
he looked at them, then with a bow he passed 
out; but once in the garden he smote one hand 
against another and smiled at some thought that 
was pleasant. 

“ Admirable ! most admirable ! ” he said to him- 
self, and nodded assent. “A foundling and ut- 
terly unknown to any one now living. I never 
suspected that. It will go hard with mie if I do 
not find a claimant for her ere long — the saintly 
slip ! — she has caused me more than one unquiet 
moment, though. I have feared to move again in 
the matter so soon ; but I’ll have her ! Would not 
Rochelle come handy in this enterprise? I fancy 
so. Once get her aboard his vessel — by heavens, 
it shall be done! Ah, Diego, you have not ac- 
complished much for Ronando by this visit to-day. 


234 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


but you have found a trail to a soft nest for your- 
self/’ 

Monsieur Lamort greeted Denise with his 
usual courtesy, but his tones had a little more 
than their usual tenderness as he looked at her. 

I heard a portion of your discourse as we en- 
tered here,” he said, as he sat beside her, “and 
you will pardon in an old man that which you 
have pardoned his slave — a little curiosity. And 
are you then utterly without family?” 

“ I am a foundling of the convent, of whom no 
one seems to know anything but that I was left 
at the gate one night,” replied the girl; while 
Venda, withdrawn a space, watched the two — 
the young face with its youthful grace, the old 
one with the gray hair, the sad eyes, and the 
scar on the cheek that lent a warrior-like charac- 
ter to his face. 

“ It is desolate enough for age to be alone, but 
the loneliness of youth can also have its sad col- 
oring; and is not even your nationality known?” 

“Nothing — not even my name; but Sister 
Andrea always insists that I come from French 
people. Mother Agnace must also have thought 
it when she called me Denise ; no other name was 
given me, for in the convent life no other is 
needed.” 

“ But in the days to come, when perhaps wed- 
ding bells are sounded for you, you must let me 
know, and I shall see that you do not go undow- 
ered. You have earned that, mademoiselle, by 


ECHOES FROM THE PAST 


235 


your labor among those who can not afford to 
repay you/' 

“You are gracious, Monsieur Lamort. But 
you do not know, then, that this dress of a novice 
has its own significance ? There will be no mar- 
riage bells for me. I am to be a nun when I 
grow older. I owe my life to the church." 

“And to no one else a thought — not even to 
yourself?" 

As she raised her eyes to answer him she noted 
that Delogne stood in the doorway and was ob- 
serving her. The color swept over her throat and 
brow like a lily that the red sun tints. Lamort 
followed her eyes, and smiled. 

“To no one, monsieur. I am nameless; but 
only from the church will a name be given me. I 
must be away on my errands now. I was speak- 
ing to your slave-woman, but did not intend to 
stay so long." 

She had arisen, when Lamort asked kindly, 
“ Is there anything in which I can serve you to- 
day? If so, you must let me know." 

Her original errand occurred to her, but she 
had lost the courage to mention it. She only 
bowed and moved to the door. 

“ If a day comes when I need service I will re- 
member your offer, and will remind you of it. 
Meanwhile, I thank you; I pray blessings upon 
you." 

“Blessings," repeated the older man, turning 
to Delogne after she had gone. “ Is it not blessing 


236 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


enough for one day to receive such sweet words, 
or so gracious a glance from those clear eyes ? ” 

Receiving no reply, he glanced around to find 
the young man staring dejectedly from the lattice. 

‘‘You are not very sympathetic, Chevalier,’' he 
remarked, drily. 

“What can you expect, monsieur — that I shall 
rejoice at the fact that the Lady Denise dispenses 
sweet glances, but will direct never one to me?- I 
am not yet saint enough for that.” 

“ What ! ” And the other turned and looked at 
him with more attention. “Something in your 
tone tells me you are serious.” 

“ Serious ! ” And Delogne faced him, with knit 
brows and determined eyes. “So serious that, 
though she has spoken to me but twice in her life, 
I would give all I wish to possess if I could hope 
to win her from those vows to the jealous church.” 

“Nay, nay, Maurice,” said the older man, 
kindly. “ Be content that your rival is nothing 
more human. But would not your aunt, the 
marquise, think this sudden fancy a thing of 
folly?” 

“ Without doubt — yes. So would many a wise 
person, monsieur, for she will not look at me ; and 
even if she did I am too poor to offer her the home 
such a lady should have — for she is a lady by 
birth, no matter how shrouded in mystery her 
parentage remains.” 

“Yes, she appears to be a lady; but, really, 


ECHOES FROM THE PAST 


237 


Maurice, one can not always judge one's descent 
from the face. Have you not seen delicate lady 
mothers have clowns for sons, and fairest flowers 
of maidens grow up daintily amid brothers and 
sisters who were like uncouth cattle ? I have. I 
have also seen a graceful, blue-eyed, brown- 
haired girl whose mother was a brown woman 
from Cuba. Those things have disturbed some- 
what my old idea that blood always tells. It does 
not always, so far as outward appearance goes, 
though I am more than willing to believe that 
mademoiselle is all you would wish her to be." 

‘‘Do you know, monsieur, for the first time I 
am anxious to hasten the investigation concern- 
ing the property De B^yarde bought long since 
for the marquise ? She told me it was to be mine 
if it was yet obtainable. It may prove of value — 
who knows? If I only had an estate of my own 
at my back I would dare move. Her friends at 
the convent might not be so persuasive then. I 
could promise more confidently that her life 
should have every care. Ah! what a simpleton 
you must think me thus to plan and dream when 
I am not even encouraged by a glance from her. 
Mon Dieii! if I was but a prince with a diadem 
to offer her ! " 

''Yes," agreed Lamort, sadly, cynically, "there 
comes a time in every man's life when he longs 
for a kingdom to bestow on some woman." 

"Ah, monsieur, it is a jest to you; but if you 
have ever known love — " 


238 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


The older man raised his hand. 

“ Say no more, Maurice. I would help you if 
I could see the way. But the memory of love in 
my life is more likely to give me cruel than kind 
thoughts; and yet — that girl — ’’ 

He leaned his head on his hands and seemed 
lost in reverie, from which Delogne made no at- 
tempt to arouse him, though he glanced at him 
curiously from time to time. He wondered what 
had made him feel bitter at the memory of love 
that had been — some woman who was false, 
perhaps. 

Then Lamort raised his head and brushed his 
hand over his brow as one who strives to drive 
away thoughts unpleasant. 

'‘Bring those papers from the cabinet to me, 
Maurice — those in the private drawer. The 
Ronando case is settled ; those slaves will be con- 
fiscated. The heavy fine and the disgrace — well, 
they will count ; and then the rolls of gold for a 
gambling debt that must be paid at once — ah! 
they all count. Young Ronando’s wife goes back 
to Spain in anger at the disclosures, and takes all 
her gold from their cofifers. That will hurt the 
old man most — the loss of gold or of dominion 
always hurts him. That is one move. Now for 
Durande.’’ 

Delogne returned with the papers, and the 
older man clutched them as if they contained 
much that was precious. 

"Yes, yes; we will see about that estate for 



We do not knife slaves in our parlors, Don Zanalta 




ECHOES FROM THE PAST 


239 


you, Maurice,’’ he said, and smiled, with a pecu- 
liar look at the young man. ‘‘The time is ripe, 
I think. Let me see the letter from Hector de 
Bayarde to the marquise — that is it — um ! Now 
hand to me that roll with the cord of crimson 
about it. Yes, my memory is good for these 
things, though I have not unrolled them for 
three years.” And he smoothed out the yellow, 
crackling parchment. “Now try your eyes on 
that. What do you see?” 

“ Why ! ” — and he stared at Lamort as though 
scarcely realizing that he had seen aright — “on 
my life, it seems the same script — written by the 
same hand.” 

“I thought you would discover the resem- 
blance,” remarked the older man, quietly. “ But 
you do not examine the meaning of the text.” 

Delogne bent over it, with a low cry of surprise. 

“It is the paper mentioned in that letter,” he 
exclaimed, excitedly. “‘The transfer of the es- 
tate called Royal Grant from Count Hector of the 
house of De Bayarde of Anjou to Madame la 
Marquise de Lescure of Rouen, France.’ So it 
is labeled, and so — ah, mon Dieu! monsieur, I 
feel as though a great wave had passed over me, 
leaving me breathless. My astonishment leaves 
me no words. Your finding of this is like witch- 
craft.” 

“I beg you will not league me with the 
witches,” smiled Lamort. “ I have had enough of 


16 


240 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


maledictions lately from our ruling class here 
without adding the accusation of witchcraft/’ 
But pray tell me how you have found this — 
by what rare chance it has come to you.” 

‘'There is little of chance in this world, Mau- 
rice,” returned the other, wearily ; “ and the only 
thing in this affair that seems strange to me is 
that you should have arrived in New Orleans at 
just the time you did.” 

“ Perhaps ; but that is by no means the strang- 
est to me. This paper, supposed to be lost in the 
sea years ago, written by a man dead these thirty 
years — well, I confess it is wonderful that you 
should have found it.” 

“ Not so wonderful when you learn that it has 
never for one moment been lost. That it never 
was sent to the marquise, because of delays that 
were many. The papers Hector de Bayarde 
promised to send were burned when the Indians 
fired a house where he was staying over in the 
Apalachee country. This one was executed long 
after, and only two months before the insurrec- 
tion of ’68 — the time of his own death and the 
confiscation of all his own property. It was sealed 
up with other papers of import — papers contain- 
ing many secrets of that troublous autumn, many 
names of persons interested in the uprising, 
whose property would also have been grasped by 
the Spanish governor if those signatures had met 
his eyes. Oh, yes, that title deed and transfer was 


ECHOES FROM THE PAST 


241 


in important company all those years, though it 
is so yellow and unlovely/' 

''But you?" persisted Delogne. "I am yet 
amazed that all this knowledge should have come 
to you ; that you could have gained so quickly all 
the past records of De Bayarde." 

"The knowledge at least came to me in all 
honesty," declared Lamort; "and if a title is 
given you to the estate it will be a clear one." 

"Do not think for one instant that I suspect 
that," said Delogne, quickly. "It is my amaze- 
ment that speaks, not my doubts ; and if it is not 
a secret, I confess I am curious to hear more." 

" Oh, no ; it is not a secret I can not tell to you," 
answered the other after a moment's thought. 
" For you, of course, would not send it abroad. I 
would trust you for that." 

"You may." 

" Of course," resumed Lamort, " I do not prom- 
ise to tell absolutely all, as there may be those yet 
on earth for whom it would result sadly, and 
against whom I have no ill-will. But you may 
have gathered from many things — report, the 
contents of my house, or my own words — that I 
have been a traveler who loved the strange cor- 
ners of the world. Well, it is true. For three 
years I have been quiet here on this Island of 
Orleans — I, who have never been so long in one 
place for more years than the number of fingers 
on both hands. Some day — pouf! — a fair wind 
will blow in the way of my mood, and doubtless I 
16 


242 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


will stand again on the deck of a vessel, and head 
her, as of old, where my fancy leads. But to the 
story : Once ofif the fair coast of Mexico inclina- 
tion led me inland — over the ranges where the 
yellow metal is found, through lands where the 
fine opals glow, and where the precious stones 
of amber, and blue, and green gleam on many an 
Indian breast; where I have seen a native guide 
kick over a stone by the path and find under it a 
topaz. In that land are labor exiles who are as 
slaves. Some have gone from these shores, some 
from the West Indies; some are really slaves 
stolen from the slave coasts and held there under 
the iron rule of the mines, working under the 
musketry of the guards, and risking worse dan- 
gers than quick death if they venture an escape 
through the country of the natives. Well, I 
reached a valley in one of those ranges — a val- 
ley where the gold was washed from the soil at 
the will of mercenaries, who filled their own cof- 
fers, and gave also a goodly portion to the state, 
for that was the law. The study of that country 
pleased me. I learned also somewhat of the traces 
gold and gems leave on the soil where they hide. 
You will find people here who will tell you I have 
made fortunes by such findings, though they but 
guess at that. But during my observations I of 
course met men who toiled, as well as the gold 
they washed in the streams. From one of those 
exiles I learned the story of wealth hidden, pos- 
sibly, in these papers, and of the papers hidden 


ECHOES FROM THE PAST 


243 


in the marked nook of the waters near this 
island/' 

‘‘ De Bayarde ! " exclaimed Delogne, with eager 
excitement; ''the man the people here have told 
us of, Basil de Bayarde, the — exile." 

Lamort nodded, and then smiled carelessly, as 
he said: 

" I am wondering why you did not say as the 
others say — Bayarde the assassin." 

" I can not say. I only know it does not seem 
natural to me to think of him as that ; perhaps be- 
cause the story of the fair lady and their love, and 
all, has made the legend more romantic than hor- 
rible to me, though of course the crime and expia- 
tion have horror enough too." 

"Well, your avoidance of the word assassin or 
murderer recalled to my mind the very earnest 
protest the man made of his own guiltlessness of 
crime in that matter." 

" Heavens ! how horrible if he should be guilt- 
less — if that most terrible sentence should be un- 
just!" exclaimed the younger man; "but, of 
course, it is not likely — the judges would, of 
course, sift well the evidence ere committing a 
life to such torture." 

" One of the judges was Sehor Ronando," re- 
marked Lamort, grimly. "The accused man was 
thought of the low caste — a young ranger of the 
north who thought little of title, and, in fact, had 
no proof at the time that he came of other than 
peasant blood. Men of Ronando's stamp could 


244 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


forgive a murderer, but not a peasant who had 
dared reach for — and clasp — a princess from 
their midst ; a maid who had disdained his judges, 
yet bent to his wooing. Think you such a man 
would judge with unbiased mind?'^ 

“And you know all this — have known it while 
it has been discussed among us, yet made no 
comment? said Delogne, looking at him wonder- 
ingly. But Lamort shrugged his shoulders. 

“Ah! no; they have told many things I had 
not heard before — for you see it was his side of 
the story I had known, not theirs, and I find a 
wide difference ; and, to tell the truth, I trust his 
the most. But I commenced to tell you of this,’’ 
and he touched the parchment. “ It seems Hector 
feared death might come to him as a result of the 
insurrection, and he made his arrangements ac- 
cordingly, so that his boy should in after years 
carry on the work he would leave undone. He 
was an earnest lover of his native France — 
though, to tell the truth, he had been treated ill 
enough by some of its people, as you may have 
heard. He had papers fiery with political plots, 
documents of power in able hands, but useless, of 
course, in the hands of a boy of ten years. So 
when the final blow struck him, he bade the boy 
take him to a nook already marked as fitting ; by 
his directions the papers, sealed in glass, were 
buried under the river-sands. The boy was made 
to promise never to unearth them until his twen- 
ty-fourth year, the father knowing that in the 


ECHOES FROM THE PAST 


245 


hands of a boy they would be things of vast dan- 
ger; but if at that age he cared to use the knowl- 
edge contained in them, and so rise to position, 
then they were to be used according to written 
instructions wrapped with them. But here one 
puzzling thing occurs. This paper in our hands 
was not meant to be buried with the others; in 
a letter it is mentioned, also the surveyed outline 
of the estate is told of, but it is plainly stated that 
the documents themselves have been sent to his 
friend in France, the Marquise de Lescure, and 
bids his son do service for her if she ever call on 
him. Now that surveyed plan of the land is not 
here, neither is the letter of instructions to the 
marquise, so my supposition is that in his haste he 
sealed and sent to the marquise those two papers, 
and overlooked the legal documents, which he 
had rolled among the ones for his son. I also 
gather from his letter to the son that he had re- 
quested, and hoped, that the marquise would have 
a care of the boy, and had written her to that 
effect.’’ 

“She never received the letter, monsieur — I 
am assured of that,” declared Delogne; “and 
since it was lost, what a lucky chance it is that this 
document was forgotten in that time of his haste 
and distraction.” 

“As I told you before, there is little that 
chances, my dear Chevalier.” 

“And you tell me that De Bayarde at his trial 


246 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


did not know of his family or their standing. 
How was that so when he had those papers ? 

He was by no means twenty-four years old at 
the time he was sentenced; and with the care- 
less nature of a boy he never took thought that 
these musty political records could help him in his 
trouble, or that they could wield influence aside 
from plots of government. The lad had seen 
more than he cared to of revolts and their dis- 
tresses, and had no disposition to take part in the 
schemes which his father held sacred. He had 
much rather make himself a pipe from a reed, 
and blow through it the songs of each bird or 
wild thing haunting the river. And so it fell that 
these things were left until this time to be looked 
into; for Bayarde, hopeless of returning in his 
own person, gave the clue to the documents into 
another's keeping." 

''And that other was you?" 

"I have them in my possession," agreed the 
other, quietly. 

"Poor fellow!" said Delogne, sadly; "he lit- 
tle thought what influence his confidence would 
have on lives he knew not of." 

"I don't know about that. He thought of a 
great many things, away off there in that living 
hell. He grew to hope — without ever having 
read those papers, mind you — he grew to hope 
steadily that their contents might have power to 
bring sorrow to some of the men who condemned 
him; and, strangely enough, it has proven so. 


ECHOES FROM THE PAST 


247 


This land to which these papers give your aunt 
legal right is now held by Durande, one of the 
judges. It will leave him less wealthy, and it will 
also take many acres from Don Zanalta; for it 
is no small garden, Maurice.'’ 

‘‘ I can scarcely realize it yet,” said the young 
man, getting up and walking about; '‘a large 
estate, of which at least a considerable portion 
will come to me — or will there be doubt as to our 
right being allowed at this date ? ” 

‘'The property was confiscated, together with 
other, as that of Hector de Bayarde, revolution- 
ist ; hence it belonged to the state, or the crown ; 
afterward it came to Durande for services ren- 
dered the governor. But at the time it was confis- 
cated it no longer belonged to De Bayarde, as 
these documents prove; so restitution must be 
made by the crown. Though before any word is 
said or any move made in the matter I would like 
much to have a copy of that original plat of the 
land as marked by the earliest surveyors, for from 
it the landmarks would be more easily distin- 
guished ; and, in my belief, there is but one in the 
hands of a private citizen, a brown parchment 
done in red ink, and that citizen is Don Zanalta.” 

“ Ah ! And what part did the Don play in the 
tragedy of Bayarde ? ” 

“He was a most important person — the pros- 
ecutor,” returned the other, quietly. “He and 
Durande have had legal trouble about the boun- 
dary-lines of their estates — they adjoin each 


248 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


other. That is how I came to learn of the sur- 
veyed plan of the old plantations which is in 
Zanalta’s possession; though you understand 
that nothing is to be mentioned concerning it to 
any one at present.’’ 

‘‘ Not at any time except by your wish,” prom- 
ised Delogne, earnestly; “but I have been most 
anxious to learn more of that man down there in 
the goldfields. Can you tell me any more of him, 
or have you grown tired of my questioning?” 

“ Not at all. I will tell you all I have been able 
to learn, and am only sorry that the ‘all’ is so brief 
and cheerless. After I found those papers and 
had settled here in Orleans for a while, I sent a 
letter to the commander of the mines out there 
asking about the man whom these papers had been 
meant to benefit. I have the answer somewhere 
among these papers here. It said that the convict 
Bayarde had been killed five years ago, by a fall 
into a chasm, where he was dashed to death. His 
body was never recovered, but his number was 
wiped from the convict-list, and he was declared 
legally dead. Not a bright finale, Chevalier, but 
the whole story is gloomy. It makes me sad 
when I think of it — and especially of the chance 
there was that he might have been innocent. 
Come, let us walk out where the wind blows; 
those papers stifle one with the mold of the past.” 


THE WOOING OF NINON 


249 


CHAPTER XI 

THE WOOING OF NINON 

In the house of Zanalta there were curious 
doings and varying moods in these days, despite 
the long hours of labor and discussion over the 
portrait of the gracious sehora. It was not yet 
completed, and the lady sat day after day on the 
throne-like chair and smiled complacently on the 
handsome artist, seeing clearly enough through 
his ruse to prolong the sittings, and receiving the 
raillery of Madame Villette with great good 
humor. 

And Don Zanalta had said to him, with sly 
meaning, acknowledge myself in your debt. 
Monsieur Raynel, for more than the price of a 
portrait, namely, so many days of fair weather in 
our household. The temper of my sister-in-law 
has ever been variable, but she broods over us all 
like a dove of peace since she has commenced to 
admire herself on your canvas. Pray, tell us, do 
you mingle a charm with your pigments ? ” 

‘'To be sure,’’ spoke Madame Villette, with a 
smile of saucy wisdom ; “ what charm more potent 
than the latest fashion from murderous Paris? 
Alas for captives snared by Monsieur Cupid 
through such arts!” 

“Take care, Ninon,” warned Don Zanalta, 


250 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


'' else some day a gallant may ride this way, and 
leave your friends lamenting because you, too, 
are numbered among the captives/’ 

‘‘ I ? ” And madame’s pretty brows were arched, 
and her jeweled hands flung upward in disdain. 
“ Pray give me credit for more wisdom. There 
will be time enough to think of that when my 
curls turn to gray, and my heart is tired of wan- 
dering.” 

‘‘Madame” — and Raynel’s eyes met hers as 
he bowed — “there is a proverb telling us it is 
best to love to-day — to-morrow never comes.” 

“ Ah ! Senora Zanalta will be interested to hear 
that ” — and she met his glance with one of laugh- 
ing defiance — “and it is a pretty playmate for 
an empty hour — this love! There are many 
proverbs about it, and among others one that 
says, ‘Love makes time pass, but time makes 
love pass.’ ” 

“Truly,” remarked Diego Zanalta, “you each 
seem wise on the subject as though you had pe- 
rused volumes concerning it; but, Ninon, a lady 
exclaiming against love is like a child who sings 
in the dark because it is afraid.” 

“Oh!” — and she gazed after his retreating 
form with large combative eyes — “afraid! — I? 
Well, then, Juan Diego Zanalta, I could tell you 
it is not Ninon Villette who is afraid — not the 
least little bit.” 

And she seated herself decorously on the quaint 
carving of the window-shelf, scarce seeming to 


THE WOOING OF NINON 


251 


see the man who had quoted of love to her, and 
who looked on her with caressing eyes from the 
respectful distance at which he stood. 

‘'And it pleases you to laugh, then, at the 
power which so many worship, madame?'’ he 
asked. “Strong indeed must be your faith in 
self if never a fear comes to you lest Monsieur 
Cupid should some day visit you in search of 
revenge.’’ 

“Indeed, no. Love only calls at doors where 
some voice sings him a welcome; and I — oh, 
well, monsieur, I have had other things to think 
of, serious things. Have you not heard of the 
lost Santa Barbara, a vessel swallowed in the 
storm of la^t month, when it carried to the ocean- 
bed so much of the dowry I might have brought 
to a husband? Well, monsieur, I speak to you 
with directness, knowing you to be a friend of 
the family, and you will understand that a dow- 
erless widow can not expect the visits you are so 
gallant as to mention.” 

Ah, Ninon! it is a time-worn card to play — 
that for compassion; and yet, ancient as it is, 
adoration ever blinds one’s eyes to the trap it 
hides. And Constante listened with a growing 
radiance overspreading his face. Her wealth 
swept away! Then that barrier was broken 
down. He felt so much closer to her when she 
said a portion of her riches was hers no longer. 

And so it was that Madame Villette, glancing 
up, met his smiling eyes, his eager, pleased face. 


252 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


and shrugged her shoulders, with a reproachful 
expression. 

^'Indeed, monsieur, though you say nothing, 
your looks belie all sympathy for my ill fortune.’^ 

‘'Ill fortune! Ah, madame, do not treat me 
coldly for that. I — I — how am I to make you 
understand what I feel at the news that you are 
no longer the very wealthy Ninon Villette? I 
can not regret the loss of that which helped to 
wall me from you — the golden weight that 
would ever have beaten down my courage.’’ 

“Monsieur!” 

“Yes, it is so. I adore you — adore you! You 
may dismiss me forever for saying so — well, it 
is said. I am poor in money — in everything but 
my heart’s love, and that is doubtless nothing in 
your eyes; but — ah, Madame Ninon! — I have 
been hiding my thoughts like a thief who was 
afraid; now at least I can feel more like an hon- 
est man since I have spoken.” 

Madame Villette had retreated under the rapid, 
passionate shower of words. It is true she re- 
treated but a step, and the lucky beggar was not 
forced to let go the hand he had audaciously 
seized. 

But even the step gave one little touch of un- 
willingness, and Constante, who dare scarce look 
in her face, groaned in spirit, though whisper- 
ing, “I love you — I adore you.” 

“But, monsieur — pray rise! Some one may 


THE WOOING OF NINON 


253 


come, perhaps ; and, ah ! if it should be my aunt, 
it would be terrible/’ 

Even his passion could not blind him to the 
fact that an arrival of Doha Zanalta at that pre- 
cise moment would be a thing to dread, and he 
arose from his place at her feet, standing beside 
her, eager — adoring. 

Madame Villette, glancing at him from the 
corner of her eye, decided that he had never be- 
fore looked so handsome. 

''Will you not even speak to me?” he en- 
treated. "Consider, madame, to love you was my 
fate — not my fault. To remain near you and 
keep silent was no longer a possible thing. But 
speak to me, I pray you.” 

"You have been very foolish, monsieur,” she 
said at last. " You have been so for a long time.” 

"I know — I know! ever since that first eve- 
ning when my eyes rested on you — when my 
arms held you for a moment amid the palms. Ah, 
madame, if for a sweet instant a soul should 
stand within the gate of paradise, and loiter ever 
after within sight of its beauties, could you blame 
him for the longings born there ? ” 

"You are adding sacrilege to folly, for the 
longings for heaven should not be spoken of as , 
the wishes of earth.” 

"Madame, if you have ever loved, you would 
know that our true loves of earth are heaven- 
born. It is the one gleam of heaven allowed to 
us here. Words of love can never be sacrilege 


254 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


against aught that is holy. You shake your head 

— you do not believe! Oh, if love’s hand but 
touched you, then you could not be so severe.” 

‘'Severe? I think not, monsieur. I but said 
you showed folly.” 

“In daring to tell you my heart was at your 
feet? Yes, it was madness to dream you might 
care, if ever so little; but the madness was 
sweet ; it is my own ; it will never leave me. Even 
your dismissal can not rob me of it, for I have 
found more sweetness in its dreams than wisdom 
will ever bring to me. So, madame, it is all said 

— all the folly. But have you no word for me 
ere I go?” 

“Go! — you are going — where?” 

“Of that I have not thought, and I dare not 
hope it is of concern to you.” 

“ Oh, but it is. The portrait of Sefiora Zanalta 
is not yet finished; my own is not yet com- 
menced.” 

He looked at her angrily, and his teeth closed 
tight as if to strangle an oath. 

“You are gracious to care where I am, 
madame,” he said, bitterly; “but it is best the 
pictures should remain ever as they are than that 
you should be further annoyed by a love you can 
not return, and I can make no promises to re- 
frain from showing you the folly of my feelings 
toward you.” 

He picked up his hat, looked at her a moment, 
and turned away with a bow. The lovely drooping 


THE WOOING OF NINON 


255 


face was flushed like a rose; she dared not raise 
her eyes to look at him. He was going, the mad- 
man ! — he had said so. He had reached the door. 

Then he heard her voice — so meek a voice — 
it was almost a whisper, and it said : 

“I — I have not asked for the promises, mon- 
sieur.’’ 

Madame — Ninon ! ” 

'' I would not know what to do with them, es- 
pecially when you threaten to break them. But 
I am very positive Sehora Zanalta will grieve if 
you take your departure without finishing her 
picture.” 

Ninon — angel! Do you mean — ” 

But she shook her head, and held out one hand 
laughingly to ward him off. 

‘'No, no! not one word more of that sort of 
questioning. If you care to tell me the answer 
you would like to hear from me, then indeed it 
will be time enough for me to confess, other- 
wise — ” 

But needless to say the alternative was not 
discussed. There were passionate words of de- 
votion, fond chidings, and some coquettings 
close there by the lattice; and the love-making 
of the young Frenchman had not quite the stately 
character belonging to the devoted courtiers of 
Old Spain. Hence the reason that Madame 
Ninon, blushing and confused, looked sister to 
some wind-kissed rose, and frowned and smiled 


17 


256 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


many times, and knit her pretty brows, murmur- 
ing against love's folly. 

‘'Ah — but think, Ninon, sweet Ninon, how 
long I have starved for a kiss of your hand — a 
gracious whisper. It has not been easy for me 
to wait until now." 

“Then do I heartily wish you had made your 
declaration at once on your meeting me if you 
think you would have been more rational than 
after these weeks of lingering wishes." 

“But did you not accuse me of folly when I 
spoke just now? You would have dismissed me 
forever had I spoken at first." 

And then Ninon, Madame Villette, laughed and 
blushed at her own words as she whispered : 

“Your folly was that you feared to speak; it 
was that I meant." 

And who so close to heaven as Constante? 

“But no; my brother will not be pleased," 
confessed the lady when later they had escaped 
to an arbor where a tete-a-tete could be assured. 
“He has thought it amusing to connect your 
name with that of Dona Zanalta" (Constante 
shuddered), “but he will not be ready to laugh 
when he learns you have found favor with me 
before his favorites." 

“Ah! if I had but the wealth of some of the 
men he would welcome!" 

“What, sir! When their wealth can not win 
me? Do you prize so lightly victories won that 
you have heart to think of others yet beyond 


THE WOOING OF NINON 


257 


you ? And she affected chagrin so prettily that 
he was forced to sue for pardon, and protest until 
she was pleased to be gracious once more. 

“It is only that I might give the jewel won a 
casket fit for its resting-place,’' he assured her, 
and sighed happily ; “ but I fear I should have to 
ask you to wait until my hair was gray ere I 
could accomplish that." 

“Then I pray you will ask nothing so impos- 
sible," she retorted. “Wait until you are old? 
— do not hope it. If I cared to marry a man who 
is old I might chance to do so without waiting 
so long, as there are several in the colony; so 
be warned." 

Monsieur Raynel looked at her with smiling 
scrutiny ; and so quickly does love reflect thought 
that Madame Ninon laughed and nodded, with 
upraised finger. 

“I can tell what you are thinking — yes, I am 
quite sure. Now confess. You are thinking of 
those who are forsaken because they are dower- 
less, and of whom we spoke but now. Yes, but 
many good people may yet think, as you yourself 
thought me, still a lady of wealth, and so present 
themselves." 

“A lady of wealth, and are you not?" de- 
manded her lover. “Each word spoken by you 
is a golden blossom of thought, each glance of 
your eyes a jewel for which a man would sell 
himself into slavery. What wealth so precious 
as that of your own charms ? " 


258 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


But what think you Diego will say when we 
speak of our stock of charms with which to com- 
mence life together ?’' she laughed gaily. “But 
never mind; Diego need not know yet, even the 
sehora need not know.'’ And she shot one wicked 
glance at him. “ Indeed, Diego has of late been 
most fitful, and the time does not seem a good 
one to tell him our thoughts." 

“Must we wait, then, the humor of Don Za- 
nalta?" asked Constante, with some impatience. 
“ I heartily wish that he himself had a lady-love 

— we could count more surely on his sympathy; 
but our gracious Don singles out no lady for his 
devotion." 

“ I do not know," said Ninon, doubtfully. “ He 
seems to have a rose-bower ever over his fancies 

— one never guesses on whom his smiles fall; 
but this I do know, he was severe with black 
Gourfi yesterday, and I heard Gourfi complain 
because a fight for ' master’s demoiselle ’ had left 
him with a lame shoulder, and I have wondered 
much who 'master’s demoiselle’ can be. It is a 
lady, of course, else Gourfi would not have said 
'demoiselle.’ But it would go ill with his temper 
should he think me curious. And well am I 
pleased that you will now be near for me to con- 
fide in, for of late I have had many curious fancies 
about Diego, and never a safe ear in which to 
whisper them." 

“By our troth, then, you are lending to me 
some of your fancies," confessed Constante, at 


THE WOOING OF NINON 


259 


the thought of '‘master's demoiselle" and the 
wounded shoulder. "I pledge you I will be a 
willing listener." 

"Very well; but you must not make oath of 
our troth until we are betrothed." And she 
shook her head warningly. 

"But what more is there to be said between 
us?" demanded her lover, in dismay. "Have I 
not protested I adore you — have you not been 
gracious enough to accept my love — have I — " 

"Ah, there ! there ! " she laughed. "And pray, 
monsieur, am I to plight troth to each gentleman 
who is pleased to tell me he loves me? Believe 
me, should I have done so, you would have a long 
list of fiances to pass ere reaching my hand." 

" Never mind ; I would fight my way through 
if you cast but a smile of encouragement to me. 
Tell me what I am to accomplish ere you will con- 
sider me your fiance, and let me hear also those 
puzzling fancies about the senor — your brother." 

"We will commence first with the fancies," 
she decided, "and afterward, if you are trusty 
— well, we will see. But this is serious — this of 
Diego. I thought of telling it to Father Joseph, 
but have not yet found courage. Constante, some 
evil one has woven a spell about Diego. He is 
possessed." 

"Possessed! — and of what?" 

" By evil spirits — the evil spirit. It keeps him 
awake in the night. He talks to it — I heard him. 
He moans and groans for it to leave him — to go 


260 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


back to the grave. He mutters of masses he will 
have said. He complains that it was the woman, 
the accursed woman, who held the knife — not 
he. He had touched no one. Now that is the 
way he talked all alone in his chamber, and when 
I, almost distracted, called and asked after his 
health he was impatient, and replied that he had 
slept poorly and had some uneasy dreams. Now 
what think you?'’ 

'‘That perhaps your brother may have been 
truthful, but forgot part of the truth, ' said Ray- 
nel, with a sympathetic understanding of such 
possibilities. "Did he say aught of the quality 
or quantity of wine he had drunk before re- 
tiring?" 

"Oh, you think it was wine, then? No, no 
indeed ! I am sure not. It was an evening when 
he had no company; when he was engaged in 
looking over accounts, and sorting old papers and 
early records of life here. All his day had been 
quiet — not one thing to make him disturbed, and 
I am sure no drinking of wine ; and then — well, 
there have been other times." 

"Other dreams?" 

"No; words in the daylight. He talks alone. 
It was never so before. I heard him in the gar- 
den, when the roses hid me. He spoke again of 
the accursed woman, and her eyes that haunted 
him. He was telling himself that something he 
had seen in the night was a shadow, nothing 
more, and then he told himself it was the fault 


THE WOOING OF NINON 


261 


of the woman whose eyes he hated ; but the some- 
thing he had seen he did not name, only said, ‘ It 
was but a shadow under the trees — a fancy of 
the darkness/ Now what am I to think — is it 
the priest I should speak to, or the physician?’’ 

Let us not be hasty in this matter; it is worth 
consideration. I will do anything you wish if I 
may help you. But ghosts under the trees, and 
the fear of a woman’s eyes ! Well, one can scarce 
tell what key will unlock the riddle. If we could 
but guess who the woman — the ‘accursed’ one 
— might be ; scarcely the ‘ demoiselle ’ of whom 
Gourfi spoke?” 

For in his mind was the fair, strong, bewilder- 
ing face of Denise as she looked that evening in 
the house of Monsieur Lamort. That could never 
be the face Zanalta shrank from ; those eyes, clear 
as the eyes of a child, could never be the eyes he 
called ‘ accursed.’ There were evidently two 
women who held the interest of Don Diego; and 
Raynel, in his usual impulsive manner, had leaped 
to the conclusion that he knew the one, and as 
quickly decided to checkmate any little game his 
future brother-in-law might have in that di- 
rection. Yet there was another part of Ninon’s 
confidences less easy to fathom. 

That other woman — the woman with the 
eyes! 

“I do not know,” acknowledged the lady, re- 
gretfully; “indeed I fear it is no woman at all, 
only a sick fancy of the brain, for he grows 


262 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


stranger than of old. He stays away some nights, 
and money is lost at games with some stranger. 
I heard of that through the Ronandos, who have 
had much trouble with such games. He only 
amuses himself with curious rascals, so he says, 
but I would rather he played games with good 
Father Joseph, who loves well the pastime and a 
glass of good wine. Such friends I am sure 
would not send him to dreams of men’s ghosts, 
or the awful eyes of women — for it must be 
only fancy.” 

They had risen and walked the length of the 
arbor, their tones low and secretive. The bees 
humming over the countless blossoms broke on 
the silence almost as sharply as their words, and 
they would have deemed it impossible that any 
ear could have heard their confidences. 

But as they retraced their steps and came to 
a path crossing their own, Ninon gave a low cry 
of surprise as their former slave, Venda, walked 
into the arbor from that side-path of the roses, 
and halted respectfully that she might not cross 
before them. 

Her eyes were nearer smiling than either had 
ever seen them. She walked as if from the house. 

‘‘ V enda ! how comes it you are in my garden ? ” 
asked Madame Villette, sharply. Who has of- 
fered you entrance through the gate that is mine 
alone? You know this is never the walk for any 
but my friends.” 

'H know, mistress. I will kneel at your feet 


THE WOOING OF NINON 


263 


for pardon. Venda did wrong, but she was in 
haste. You were ever kind, so please forgive. 
You forgive’’ — she looked with comprehension 
at the two — ‘'and Venda make you a charm to 
bind the heart you lean toward. Venda know, 
and Venda wish you well.” 

“Oh — enough!” agreed Madame Ninon, with 
blushes and some confusion under the calm, cer- 
tain gaze of the slave- woman. “Go your way; 
but in future use the gate of the other garden 
when you have an errand, and let Venda keep that 
which she knows to herself.” 

“ It shall be as you say, little madame. To you 
and master I wish a paradise.” 

She made one of those profound oriental bows, 
touching her lips and her breast with her hand, 
and then passed out of sight beyond the roses. 

“Venda is never Venda without some such 
strange barbaric action,” remarked Madame 
Ninon. “ I do believe she makes use of such prac- 
tices the better to inspire fear in the other slaves, 
and to induce even the whites to believe in her 
charms. It makes her more graceful than the 
others, but beyond that it means nothing.” 

“ Perhaps not,” agreed Raynel, dubiously ; “ but 
with all her soft words I would just as soon be 
prayed into paradise by other lips than those of 
the performer of that heathenish dance we wit- 
nessed in the house of Monsieur Lamort. I have 
shuddered in the night when I thought of her 
face — her eyes — and the hand held out to a 


264 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


dancer invisible. I have never seen any human 
thing that impressed me as did that strange-eyed 
slave.’’ 

Ninon laughed. Venda had always been most 
docile with her, and it amused her to hear of the 
alarm she inspired in others, even in Diego Za- 
nalta after years under the same roof. 

She stopped abruptly in her laugh and walk, 
looking up into her lover’s face with a sudden 
inspiration. 

''Now if Diego had said in his sleep that it 
was a black woman whose eyes he hated, I should 
think it was Venda.” 

"Venda!” 

" Just so ; his avoidance of her was so marked. 
He never once took from her hand a cup or a bit 
of fruit. Often have I wondered that he did not 
sell a slave he could not endure near him. And 
now — but I am silly to have such thoughts; they 
came all in a moment, when you too spoke of her 
with distrust. It is not likely, is it, that Don 
Diego Zanalta, who has had black people by the 
dozens, should be haunted by one slave-woman 
whom he bought and sold?” 


DIEGO ZANALTA LAYS PLANS 265 


CHAPTER XII 

DIEGO ZANALTA LAYS PLANS AND SENORA ZANALTA 
SPEAKS HER MIND 

While the lovers talked in the arbor and laid 
plans to discover the cause of Diego’s ill rest, 
Diego himself was closeted with Father Joseph in 
the house of the priest, and listened eagerly to a 
story he had asked for. 

‘‘On a Christmas night, you say, and in the 
year 17 — ? Now tell me, did you learn nothing 
but the date — no family name? Were there no 
trinkets — or did you ask?” 

“I asked. To every question the answer was 
‘no.’ It was thought Mother Agnace knew 
something, but she is no longer living. She left 
word, however, that Denise was meant for the 
convent.” 

“Strange that so noble a woman should lend 
her aid to a thing that if known would be re- 
sented as an outrage by every gentleman’s child 
who is instructed in the convent,” said Zanalta, 
with a fine burst of indignation. “ I beg you will 
not think me demented. Father — you look at me 
as if you feared so. I can not confide in you this 
morning. I must examine more deeply into this 


266 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


question before I dare put my thoughts into 
words; but if that which I suspect proves to be 
the truth, a great wrong has been waiting all 
these years for our righting, ever since that 
Christmas night — it was the night, not the day ? 

‘^It was night — a night well remembered, be- 
cause two infants were left at the gate after the 
darkness fell; the other an octoroon child that 
did not live the night through. But tell me, my 
son, all this inquiry means no harm to the girl — 
Denise?’' 

‘'No harm; it may mean a change in her life, 
but I do not think it will prove unpleasant ; how- 
ever, I can tell you no more than that. I am 
much in your debt for your investigation of this 
matter. Let me know if I can ever serve you so 
well.” 

But scarce waiting to hear the reply of the 
priest, he hastened out of the shadows of the 
dwelling and walked jubilant in the sunshine. His 
walking-stick was flourished jauntily as he 
moved. He wanted to laugh aloud in his content. 
If dreams ever troubled him, they were forgotten 
then. He seemed a different man. A beggar 
asked alms shrinkingly as he passed, and was as- 
tonished at the handful of coin flung to him. 
Diego was in a rare mood. 

“That night of Christmas,” he repeated to 
himself, “ a day of all days the best ; not one can 
come in evidence against my plan, for Venda at 
that time was on the plantation of Madame Solle 


DIEGO ZANALTA LAYS PLANS 267 


with Felice St. Malo. Madame is dead, Felice 
is dead — who is there to evidence that a child 
was not born of Venda there on that plantation, 
a child whose father was white and a child that 
bore no likeness to her mother? Such things 
have been; and if she confesses it — if? — she 
must — I will have little trouble to establish my 
claim to the child, when the mother belonged to 
me at the time of the birth. Popular opinion will 
be with me ; the convent dare not combat strongly, 
for every white citizen will be enraged at the 
chance that his child has been educated arm in 
arm with a negresse! Ah, it all plays into my 
hands so smoothly ; the plan is admirable. I pre- 
pare my paper for the recovery of my slave. I 
get Venda’s mark to it. I receive the signature 
of an alcalde. I claim my pretty saint and spend 
a honeymoon somewhere among the islands of 
the gulf shore. I may have been unlucky at play 
of late — to Rochelle is that blame — but fortune 
is somewhat at my call despite the cards.” 

He was walking along the road by the river 
where boats of different sorts were drawn up 
with their noses against the shore, when, glancing 
out over the turbulent water, his eyes fell on a 
boat cutting its way through and sending the 
spray flying to either side. Few of the blacks 
propelled a boat like that ; they ever prefer a song 
to the dip of the oars, and the air one that moves 
slowly. 

Zanalta halted to watch it, and as the rower’s 


268 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


face was seen he walked down to the water's edge 
and beckoned to the man. 

“I was sure of your face afar off, Monsieur 
Robert," he said, as the man saluted, ''and glad 
am I it is you instead of your men whom I chance 
on, for I would much like to transact a matter of 
business with the Sea Gull and it pleases me to 
deal with principals." 

"At your service, sehor," said the man, quietly. 
" I trust it may be possible to meet your desires." 

"An easy matter enough, if you can give me the 
vessel for a month, manned as it is," returned 
Zanalta, and smiled at the surprise in the sailor's 
eyes. " You are astonished at that ? Surely, your 
commander can spare it to me so long. I well 
know he does not live in it steadily of late, for he 
is too often on shore, and I have reason to think 
spends time inland among the Natchez — but it 
matters not at all to me where he may roam, and 
I will not interfere with his traffic, whatever it is ; 
all I ask is room for myself and — companion." 

The man Robert shook his head, with a depre- 
cating smile. 

" It would distress me to refuse you, sehor, but 
I fear it will not be possible. You know Mon- 
sieur Rochelle is a gentleman of many moods, and 
as restless as a sea gull itself. He has never yet 
parted with his vessel to another lest a moment 
should come when he would need it, and to let it 
go to a stranger besides yourself — I can ques- 
tion him for you, but I fear not." 


DIEGO ZANALTA LAYS PLANS 269 


Zanalta hesitated a moment, and then : 

Perhaps when you tell him my companion will 
be a — a lady he will have more sympathy for my 
desires/' 

'' Oh, a lady ! Well " — and the man smiled and 
looked more encouraging — ‘'it may be. When 
will you want to go aboard?" 

“ I will want all in readiness for three nights in 
succession, not counting to-night, and a small 
boat waiting at some given point to take us aboard 
at any minute we decide to go." 

“I see." And the sailor nodded his compre- 
hension. The love of an intrigue was dear to the 
heart of a seaman in the days when there was 
romance to touch it, and he was convinced it was 
an elopement Sehor Zanalta was planning — well, 
it would be a diversion. “I can let you know 
after the stars shine to-night, not earlier," he 
decided. 

“And where?" 

“At your own house, or at a cafe where you 
have met Monsieur Rochelle ; it is called 
Manette's." 

“Let it be there. I will go for the answer 
instead of having it come to me. At what hour ? " 

“Nine by the clock." 

“ So let it be. A good-morning to you. Mon- 
sieur Robert ; and remember I am counting much 
on the assistance of your vessel — indeed I would 
much like to see Rochelle himself in the matter if 


270 


' A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


it be at all convenient, but he is such a will-o'- 
the-wisp/’ 

“ He shall hear of your desire, at all events,” 
promised the other, “ and if he is within easy dis- 
tance he is likely to speak with you in person of 
the matter.” 

Then they parted, and Don Zanalta went on 
his way, well pleased at the meeting, for he ob- 
served that Robert was inclined to favor him, and 
that was a favorable beginning. And what plan 
so good as using the Sea Gull for his flight? In 
a month his '‘companion” Avould be tractable 
enough — she the "saintly slip,” as he called her. 
Then it would be safe to land; she would be re- 
signed. He would settle on some abode for her 
away from the town house; he was inclined to 
have her well lodged unless she prove unreason- 
able; and a month alone with him at sea, and 
only the faces of lawless seamen to meet her own ! 
Then the certainty borne in upon her that she 
was, for all her fine learning, only a slave — the 
daughter of an African voudou — ah, the entire 
plan was admirable! He forgot the years of 
weariness that vexed him at times. He was 
young again with the youth of the early summer. 
Through the medium of this new emotion and 
prospective triumph, he felt that Fortune was 
turning with him into the path of his desires, and 
he walked confidently to meet her. 

Other canoes moved over the waters that morn- 
ing — canoes with feather-trimmed occupants. 


DIEGO ZANALTA LAYS PLANS 271 


who gathered in groups and watched curiously 
the faces of the white sehors, who wondered at 
the simultaneous coming of the Natchez, and 
noted also that they were dressed in their richest, 
as if for some stately ceremony; but what aifair 
of moment could bring them thus uninvited to 
the dwelling-place of the whites? 

Don Zanalta noted them, though too much ab- 
sorbed in his own affairs to question; but as he 
passed the house of Lamort he observed a group 
of the somber-faced red men there too. They 
spoke to Delogne at the entrance. Pie was di- 
recting them to the Cabildo, but their interpreter, 
a French half-breed woman, was stupid. 

‘'This no Cabildo?” 

“No, no; this house of Lamort — alcalde — 
comprehend?” 

“ Lamort ! ” Two or three of the men repeated 
the name and nodded to each other. 

“Where Lamort?” they asked; and Delogne 
looked at them in despair. They were like stolid, 
persistent children. 

“ Who sent you here? ” he demanded, in return. 
The woman consulted with the others, and then 
spoke : 

“The man, Rochelle and his Natchez man, 
Nicholas. He say come down and hear in the 
Cabildo the Natchez who are slaves ask to be 
free. The great king over the water made them 
free many years ago, yet they are held. Now 
over the water, it is said, there is much freedom. 

18 


272 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


The people sing songs and dance dances over the 
bodies of the dead nobles. There are nobles here 
in this land; they hold the people of the Natchez 
captive. The time has come to ask for the thing 
the great king sent to them.’' 

Zanalta heard the name Rochelle, and retraced 
his steps. 

Can I be of any assistance to you, Chevalier ? ” 
he inquired, carelessly, and Delogne hesitated, 
though apparently needing assistance. 

'‘If you could persuade these red gentlemen 
that no amount of waiting about the door will 
bring the Cabildo here, then I do not doubt you 
would be doing Monsieur Lamort a favor,” he 
confessed. "They appear to have a settled idea 
that it is here justice is dealt.” 

"Did Monsieur Rochelle send you here?” 
Zanalta asked the woman; and she questioned 
the others. They shook their heads and muttered 
negatives. 

"Cabildo,” they repeated, and then — "but red 
men all say white Lamort.” 

" I see how it is,” concluded Zanalta ; " they are 
like wild animals still — these Indians — animals 
that have seen traps. Lamort has a fancy for 
interesting himself in these natives. They have 
learned his amiable weakness, and come no doubt 
for his sanction ere they will take the advice of 
any other. They are just so doltish — these sav- 
ages. If you will allow me to call one of Lamort’s 
blacks.” 


DIEGO ZANALTA LAYS PLANS 273 

'‘Certainly; here, Nappo!” 

Nappo appeared, with curiosity and some alarm 
visible in his big black eyes. Tales of massacres 
had made the red man the terror of the African. 

"This boy will walk with you the path to the 
Cabildo,” spoke Zanalta in a tone of authority to 
the natives; "do you comprehend? You go 
there ; there you will hear the things of the law. 
That is all. Go ! ’’ 

Nappo nodded to them, motioning the di- 
rection in which they were to be guided. The 
half-breed woman repeated the message, and the 
red men glanced from one to the other; then, 
with a significant grunt behind closed lips and a 
glance of utter disdain at poor Nappo, they turned 
as with one accord from the door and passed 
across the grounds to a different street from the 
one pointed out for them. The interpreter fol- 
lowed without a word at their heels. 

" You perceive,’' remarked Zanalta, with 
amusement, " they know quite well where to go, 
but stubbornly waited here that they might see 
Monsieur Lamort, whether he wished it or not. 
They are doubtless little kings in their own tribes, 
and resented a black messenger. Is it so, then, 
that the red slaves have thus suddenly made 
preparation to demand their freedom? for if so, 
of course Monsieur Lamort is acquainted with 
the fact.” 

"Yes, sehor. It is being discussed in the Ca- 
bildo this morning. The revolution of France is 
18 


274 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


sending echoes to every land; this movement of 
the red men is only one expression of it.” 

'‘And a useless one,” commented the other. 
"The planters will simply see that the law for 
their liberation is repealed — a senseless law, 
made years ago in a court across the water, and 
by people who had no practical knowledge of 
this land's requirements. Who could have ad- 
vised the savages that the old law was yet in 
existence?” 

" I know not,” returned Delogne, briefly. " The 
red men spoke of but two people, that Monsieur 
Rochelle whom they name the 'night-hawk,' be- 
cause he is never seen among them when the sun 
shines, and then another who is evidently his of- 
ficer, but partly of the Natchez blood. Beyond 
that they told me nothing.” 

"And Monsieur Lamort,” persisted Zanalta, 
" is he also at the Cabildo in their interest ? If so, 
they surely have widely dififerent advocates — 
Monsieur Lamort and a lawless ranger of the 
waters.” 

"Monsieur Lamort is not here at present. 
When you see him he will without doubt give you 
any required information on the matter, and as 
I have duties I must bid you good-day.” 

"A most assuming fellow,” murmured the 
Spaniard, looking after him with little love, " and 
evidently cultivating as close a mouth as his mas- 
ter. Well, little care I for the doings of the 
island if I but secure the vessel and the maid. 


DIEGO ZANALTA LAYS PLANS 275 


Curious that Rochelle and his men should also 
have a linger in this pudding of Indian slavery — 
one from which there is never a plum to be 
plucked. Um! it would go hard with Durande 
if the savages should get their demands — there 
are many of them on his plantation; though I 
need not waste pity on him, for I have not yet 
forgotten the trouble he made me once over the 
boundary-line. That reminds me to convey the 
diagram of the old estate to Monsieur Lamort. 
I will need his aid in claiming my slave, and it is 
well to pave the way by conferring a favor. 
Strange that he cares so little about incurring 
the hate of the ruling class here. Within a 
month he has made enemies of the Ronandos and 
all their connection. Now it will be Durande. 
Well, he has been a power here for two years. 
It is well he is digging a pitfall for his feet, else 
his sway might have grown as wide as the land 
— yes, would have, had he been careful enough 
to conciliate the right people ; and yet, a man may 
grow tired of statecraft and the ambitions of it, 
for all of this spring-time I have cared nothing 
who ruled. The eyes of Denise have been more 
often in my memory than all the machinery of 
the Cabildo; but Victor Lamort — pah! he is too 
cold and correct of pulse to appreciate aught but 
musty documents and law archives. Strange — 
he is not so old ! 

He had reached his own grounds, though his 


276 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


feet had found the way by instinct ; his thoughts 
were elsewhere than on the path. 

And on the threshold he met Sehora Zanalta. 

An excited, irate, and furious sehora, whose 
bridal-veil was twisted into a rope by her restless 
fingers, and all the curls and brocades adjusted 
for the portrait were sadly disturbed. 

‘‘Ah — gr-r-r! We are disgraced, our house 
is no more, the name of Zanalta (thanks to the 
saints, I was not born of their blood) will be 
shrouded in shame ! Diego Zanalta, have you no 
feeling in your breast? Is it nothing to you that 
your half-sister stoops to intrigue with an artisan 
hired by me to do service — a clever trickster 
whom she fancies cares for herself instead of her 
money? Oh, it is fine! We are to be made the 
laughing stock of the town, and he — he, the in- 
grate! Are you dumb that you say nothing? 
Well, then, I will not be silent. I, Mercedes Sofie 
Zanalta, to be thus tricked and schemed against 
day by day. Not that I would so much as use his 
coat for a carpet, or his head for a footstool. May 
the saints deform him ! Not that I care who has 
him, with his brushes and his smirks. Ah — h! 
if he had not run so fast!'’ 

And the beringed fingers of the lady opened 
and closed with a combative, destructive move- 
ment suggestive of scratches and loosened 
tresses. 

Her brother-in-law dropped on a divan with a 


DIEGO ZANALTA LAYS PLANS 277 


sigh of resignation. And it had been so lately he 
praised her improved temper! 

'‘Well, my dear sehora, continue your scold- 
ings, if they are not completed. When you have 
expressed all your annoyance I shall be pleased 
to hear the reason. Who has tricked or robbed 
you?'’ 

"Robbed me! Holy St. Francis! Did I want 
him? Do I care whom he prances around? I 
tell you, Diego Zanalta, I have disdained courtiers 
in Madrid whose shoes this lackey would not be 
allowed to lace! Think not that because I wed 
your brother it was for lack of more illustrious 
offers. Do you heed me?" 

"I hear you, most certainly," he agreed, with 
weariness. "I fully understand that our family 
should feel honored by an alliance with your 
illustrious self; you can have no argument with 
me on that score, though my brother was at times 
less gallant than I, and even wished aloud that 
the ship had gone to the bottom of the sea ere he 
set sail for the port where he first met you; but 
for such men beauty was never intended, my 
honored sehora. Now by me you were always 
held at your true worth, and if any cavalier has 
spurned your addresses, I promise you he shall 
hear from me." 

'' S acre ! — are you all demented? I care noth- 
ing for the fellow, however much he may have 
fancied so — and she too — the fools! Not longer 
shall I remain here, Diego Zanalta. Take heed. 


278 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


for I swear it, when the next ship leaves for 
Spain I depart forever from these shores, where 
the most illustrious names must be associated 
with those of the rabble to be in the fashion of the 
times. Let your Ninon wed her dirty painter, if 
it pleases her. Oh, holy saints! that I should 
have found them, he at her feet, her fingers dab- 
bling in his curls, and never a blush on her brazen 
cheek. But I assure you they ran finely when 
they saw me — a brave lover for Madame Ninon 
Villette, one who flies before the eyes of a lady 
insulted ! ’’ 

Do you mean to tell me you surprised a love- 
scene between my sister and this painter, Ray- 
nel?’’ demanded her kinsman, arousing himself 
to interest. '‘Do you not think your fancy has 
been warped by your fears? I have noted noth- 
ing of the kind.’’ 

"No, thanks to their duplicity — ah! did I not 
hear them laugh that they had cheated us so? 
Even my name was spoken by them, and well it 
was for them both that they fled.” 

"Raynel!” And Zanalta’s brow had a deep 
wrinkle of thought drawn across it. The senora 
welcomed it as a sign of his anger, and poured 
out various grievances in the matter, while the 
ethereal bridal-veil steadily lost all semblance to 
anything so poetical, and with each shred of it 
plucked by her hands she repeated her unchange- 
able resolve to betake herself from the shores of 
the sauvage people, that her remaining days 


DIEGO ZANALTA LAYS PLANS 279 


might be lived among surroundings more to her 
taste. 

But the ears of Zanalta were closed to her. He 
was deliberating over this story she had brought 
him. If it should all be true, if Ninon should even 
want to marry the fellow! And as he had in 
truth not a vestige of power over her beyond 
what she chose to allow him — well, there were 
reasons why he would not be displeased, and the 
chief reason was that he thought Constante a 
fool. 

‘Hf Ninon had chosen a gallant of the town, 
who knew every gold-piece left to her by Villette 
— some one with an investigating mind, like Vic- 
tor Lamort — well, it might have proved awk- 
ward for me. He would have induced her to 
demand a reckoning of every copper bit, and then 
— but this stranger, a fool in finance — these ar- 
tists and poets and such ever are; and since she 
will wed where she likes when the time comes, it 
is best to keep in her favor and that of the man 
she smiles on. I may then be able to manage 
them both if I should ever need their offices. 
Others will say it is a mesalliance, no doubt ; but 
I will know how to make it serve my turn.'’ 

''What will you do with them?" asked the 
senora as he arose. "You can put her in retreat 
with the nuns, can you not? When one shames 
her family — " 

" Enough ! I am weary of the subject. Had 
you, senora, chosen to smile on the gentleman 


280 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


whose brushes enhanced your beauty for us, 
think you I would have shut you in a convent? 
Not at all. I have too much sympathy for the 
dreams of love.’’ 

And leaving the sehora dumb with astonish- 
ment and chagrin, he repaired to his own apart- 
ment, but not without being followed by light- 
footed Ninon, who slipped from behind a friendly 
curtain where she had been a witness to the entire 
scene. To say that she was joyous over Diego’s 
reception of the damning proofs of her folly ex- 
pressed feebly her sensations. She had never 
been over-fond of her half-brother ; but now for 
once she entered his door with a rush, and caught 
his shoulders with her little hands as though to 
hug him for his acknowledged sympathy. 

There, there ! ” he protested. Has she told 
the truth, and does it make you act so like a 
child?” 

But she was not to be chidden. She saw he 
was not angry, and her laugh was care-free. 

''It is the truth, but oh, how much we were 
frightened ! ” And her eyes were big with mem- 
ories. ''She burst through the arbor like the 
tornadoes that blow on the coast. I have been 
hidden ever since.” 

"And your gallant inamorata — where is he? 
Did you discard him in your fright?” 

Madame Villette gave him one appealing 
glance. In vain she strove to control the curves 
of her laughing mouth. But the humor of the 


DIEGO ZANALTA LAYS PLANS 281 


situation proved too much for her, and her 
complex emotions were expressed by unrestrained 
laughter, though the tears shone on her lashes. 

‘‘He never waited for dismissal,'’ she con- 
fessed. “He ran one way and I ran the other. 
Ah! how frightened I was lest she should catch 
us!" 

“And you are in love, then, with a man who 
could desert you in the face of danger?" queried 
Zanalta. But she smiled at him flippantly, and 
a little pitifully. 

“As if that made any difference," she retorted, 
disdainfully. ''Any man would have run if Sefiora 
Zanalta had appeared before him in such anger. 
But it is neither for what he does nor leaves un- 
done that I care for him; I care just because he 
is — himself." 

“And who is to tell you that he does not ad- 
dress you because of the report that the Widow 
Villette has a handsome store of wealth laid by 
for her ? " 

But she only laughed. 

“ It is not the money, Diego. How ungallant 
of you to suppose a man would only look at me 
if I was well dowered!" 

Zanalta seemed scarcely to hear her. He was 
looking with some attention and perplexity at a 
compartment in his desk where some papers were 
visible, and he tossed them about impatiently as 
though in search of something. 

“And, Diego, there is the Virgin Constante 


282 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


was to paint for the chapel, and Doha Zanalta 
swears it shall not be now ; that she has influence 
and will have the order for it withdrawn; that 
she—” 

“Peace!” he commanded, sharply. “I scarce 
can think for your chattering. Something has 
gone from this room since I left here an hour or 
so ago. Who has entered here?” 

“No one — not a soul.” 

“No one of whom you know, perhaps,” he 
agreed; “but, nevertheless, there has been some 
pilfering here. A parchment is gone, one with 
lettering in red ink on the outside; the contents 
of it one of the most ancient plans of land made 
on these shores — the outline of a royal grant 
made in the year 1714, surveyed by an order of 
Anthony Crozat. It may be that the names or 
dates tell you nothing; you are heedless of your 
own land boundaries as the birds that fly; but 
this document is a curiosity. I held it in my hand 
this morning; it was left there, I could swear to 
it, and now it is gone.” 

“Is it valuable — would it be worth money to 
any one?” asked Ninon, searching diligently in 
every portion of the room for a parchment with 
lettering of red. 

“Worth money? No; not unless I should some 
day choose to reopen that contest of the boundary 
with Durande, and — but, yes, it is worth money, 
too, for I have promised a view of it to a gentle- 
man curious about such things, and a person from 


DIEGO ZANALTA LAYS PLANS 283 


whom I shall want a favor in return. It is like 
witchcraft that it should go just at this time. Go 
question all the house-servants; learn if any of 
them were seen to enter here. It must be found. 
A roll the size of this, but marked with red 
letters.'’ 

‘‘Yes, Diego." But Ninon eyed him with at- 
tention as she neared the door. Was this loss 
perhaps only an imaginary thing, she was ask- 
ing herself — kindred to the phantoms with which 
he talked in the night-time? “I will search, 
Diego; but I am just the least bit afraid of Doha 
Zanalta. She is still furious; and Constante — " 

“ Oh, may the devil seize Constante ! Get you 
gone ! " 

And then Madame Villette withdrew in haste, 
and was fully convinced that the loss was an 
imaginary one. For how could any well-balanced 
mind fling execrations at the devoted head of 
Constante Raynel? 

And straightway the lady concluded to search 
for that wisely cautious knight, and confer with 
him on the subject, instead of wasting precious 
time in search for an old parchment, red-lettered 
and ancient though Diego thought it. 


284 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


CHAPTER XIII 

MONSIEUR LAMORT PAYS A VISIT 

And SO when Victor Lamort himself chanced 
to drop in for a chat the paper had not yet been 
found, though Sehor Zanalta quickly smoothed 
his disturbed countenance, and came forward to 
greet his rare guest. 

am weary of the jangling across there at 
the Cabildo,’’ he confessed, '‘and your gardens 
looked so inviting with their shade that I yielded 
to the temptation of them and have arrived at 
your door.” 

“ My house is honored by your visit. Monsieur 
Lamort,” returned Zanalta. “ It is an honor few 
houses of Orleans can boast of, for you ever seem 
too busy a man for rest under any man's roof but 
your own. And are the affairs of the Cabildo 
ended for the day ? And what of the red slaves ? ” 

“They will be slaves but little longer, sehor,” 
affirmed the other with confident tone. “It has 
been many years since O’Reilly, acting for the 
king of Spain, prohibited further traffic in Indian 
slaves, and yet after more than twenty years they 
still toil on the plantations. They are bought and 
sold again to the highest bidder. But now that 
they have wakened to a sense of their rights, and 
chiefs from every tribe are coming to have the 


MONSIEUR LAMORT PAYS A VISIT 285 


matter adjudged, the question can no longer be 
dismissed as an indifferent one; even Corondalet 
perceives that, though he objects to an immediate 
sweeping aside of the present state of things, and 
recommends compromise. But that of itself 
would be weakening a link in the chain the red 
slave wears.’’ 

‘'Of course you are aware that the planters 
will fight the case,” hazarded Zanalta, “ and that 
every owner of slaves, no matter what their color 
may be, will range themselves against you and 
your proteges ? ” 

Lamort smiled indifferent assent. 

“Yes, they tried to make me understand that; 
but it will not matter. Every reform must combat 
prejudice.” 

“ You are courageous, monsieur, to face the 
prospect of social ostracism for the sake of some 
stupid savages who can never comprehend your 
sacrifice for them.” 

“Scarcely that,” returned Lamort, still with 
the little smile about his lips. “ You see, notwith- 
standing the fact that I have remained three 
years on your shores, I am likely to leave them in 
three hours if I no longer find pleasure here, or 
work to interest me.” 

“And the work to interest you must mean re- 
form of some sort,” said Zanalta, with assumed 
brightness. “ To me it ever appears a matter for 
pity that you direct your endeavors only against 
the more wealthy and intelligent class. One 


286 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


grows sorry to see forever some of his friends 
being led to the Cabildo for judgment, as though 
they were the most insignificant of artisans, while 
in fact more than one who has been brought to 
defeat at your word himself served as a law- 
maker at some time. You have a scent like an 
Indian for game that has stepped from the 
straight path into the shadows for an instant.’’ 

Lamort rubbed his palms together in a pleased 
way, accepting the words as a compliment. 

“While one is in the world one must do some- 
thing,” he observed; “ and what better than to set 
wrong right? The ruling class should, in justice, 
pay a heavier price for faults committed than the 
masses of humanity, for their superior intelli- 
gence should be weighed with the fault.” 

Zanalta glanced at him with a little shiver. He 
could see a certain narrow groove after all in the 
man they all thought so calm, so evenly balanced. 
He seemed for one instant to perceive in him one 
idea embodied, and that idea the meting out of 
justice according to his conception of the word. 
It is the one-idea man who develops into the 
fanatic — later into the madman. And Zanalta 
arose, with a strange foreboding of evil as the 
revelation of the man’s character came to him. 
He only crossed the room for some water and 
wine; but the mere sense of movement was a 
relief after that fancy, and he shook his shoulders 
as though flinging off a weight, and told himself, 
as Rochelle had told him, that he was to be 


MONSIEUR LAMORT PAYS A VISIT 287 


congratulated that this justice-hunter had never 
shown signs of suspicion of him — not even a 
hint of smuggling, a thing for which many gen- 
tlemen had been made to pay fines and receive a 
black mark across an otherwise faultless record. 
Assuredly he had been rarely lucky. 

And thinking so, he offered his choicest wine 
to the fanatic who fought for justice in high 
places — wine brought ashore not long since from 
Rochelle’s vessel, and presumably liable to con- 
fiscation; and Monsieur Lamort sipped it with 
innocent enjoyment, and observed that he must 
not tarry, for Delogne had met him a little way 
down the street and given him tidings that a 
guest -T- a stranger — awaited his attention, an 
old priest brought by some of the Indians from 
the far north country. He had become ill on the 
journey, and they, after their fashion, had 
brought him to the house of exiles” instead of 
to the dwellings of his order. 

“That is one of the undesirable things about 
popularity with the natives and lower classes,” 
remarked Zanalta. “ They would turn your house 
into an inn with never a thought of your incon- 
venience.” 

“ True ; but then, again, they might be just as 
willing to transform their poor wigwams into a 
hostelry for me should I require it,” said Lamort, 
tranquilly; “and if they never bring me a less 
welcome guest than one of those faithful pioneer 
priests, of whom I have heard much — well, I will 


19 


288 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


have no quarrel with them on that score. By the 
way, sehor, do you remember speaking of an old 
parchment in your possession of which I was 
promised a sight — a survey of a certain royal 
grant given by Crozet? I may need it in evi- 
dence within a few days, so take the liberty to 
remind you of it.’’ 

And it shall be yours,” declared Zanalta. I 
am a little curious to know how it can be of use 
to you, yet am willing that it should be. Is it a 
question of Durande’s land?” 

''Well, yes; it may be,” agreed Lamort, as 
though studying whether to give or keep a secret. 
" A portion of that estate was illegally confiscated 
to the Spanish crown; the evidence is clear, and 
another heir is in the field. Without that ancient 
survey it can be proven, but with it, all can be 
arranged rapidly, and with no long expensive 
trial as to just the position of landmarks and 
so on.” 

"And it will deprive Durande of his planta- 
tion?” asked Zanalta, with utter amazement 
showing in his face and voice. But Monsieur 
Lamort smiled in a deprecating way as he an- 
swered : 

" Of part of that plantation on which he re- 
sides I think I can say — yes; but of course the 
crown can easily grant him another tract, thus 
making amends for the fault of its officials after 
the insurrection of ’68. Those in command of 
the colony at that time confiscated all properties 


MONSIEUR LAMORT PAYS A VISIT 289 


of the revolutionists, and it has been discovered 
at this late day that they also, through excess 
of zeal, confiscated lands to which the rebels had 
no claim, and afterward distributed the same 
wherever their policy prompted them. So it was 
with a portion of the tract sold later to Monsieur 
Durande. It is to the crown to which that gen- 
tleman must look for another land grant, and it 
will doubtless be given. The kings of a country 
should take heed that honest dealing be enacted 
there. Justice should ever be held in honor.’' 

Zanalta noticed, as before, that firm setting of 
the mouth at the mention of justice. For an 
instant it made the speaker’s face look harder 
and older. 

‘‘But the plantation — sacre ! It is the pride 
of his life — that place. Even Charles of Spain 
could not select in all his lands an estate to recom- 
pense Durande for ‘ Royal Grant.’ Not that I 
need vex my mind with it, for he reached over 
our boundar3^-line many a furlong. Yet, his 
Indian slaves to go, and now his homestead ! 
Well, it will lower his high head.” 

There was a spice of satisfaction in his tone, 
though he shook his head over the evil prospect 
for his neighbor, and Monsieur Lamort, watch- 
ing closely, took advantage of it. 

“ So you see I take you into my confidence con- 
cerning this legal discussion that is to be, that you 
may know the paper you possess is to be used 
only in the cause of justice. When it pleases you 


290 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


to let me see it, I shall be in your debt, in behalf 
of the new heir, and I only ask an opportunity to 
return so gracious a favor/’ 

''Good!” thought Zanalta; "it is worth some 
planning to hear him say that.” But aloud he 
said : " The paper is for you, monsieur ; this day 
I will look for it; and it may indeed be that when 
I take it to you I also may ask a document at your 
hands for the settlement of a provoking affair. 
You, as alcalde y might save me distraction con- 
cerning it. Nothing more serious than the claim- 
ing of a slave whose mother, belonging to me, 
tricked me into thinking dead that the young one 
might be reared out of slavery. You understand ? 
Oh, it was well thought out, and succeeded for a 
long time; and even now I want it settled with- 
out the woman being punished, as she would be 
punished if the case should go before the Cabildo. 
I feel certain you will be of one mind with me in 
that.” 

"Indeed, yes; but you Spanish grandees sel- 
dom evade the spirit of the law in that way.” 
And the gaze of Monsieur Lamort was sharp 
and a little doubtful. "Are your sympathies 
turning to the side of the unwilling blacks who 
are brought yearly to our shores ? ” 

" I think not,” returned Zanalta, with assumed 
indifference. He knew it would never do to pre- 
tend any such sudden change of opinion. "No, 
I think, as always, that the condition of the Afri- 
can in our land, surrounded by civilization and 


MONSIEUR LAMORT PAYS A VISIT 291 


the example of the whites, is decidedly preferable 
to the wild, useless, savage life they have hitherto 
known. But of late you are aware they, together 
with the red slaves, clamor for privileges un- 
known of old. The revolution over the seas 
breeds discontent even here, and more than one 
master has of late found his black people hard 
to manage. The whipping of a slave by the au- 
thorities generates sullen antagonism toward the 
master who sent him there; and if the slave is a 
strong-willed fellow — well, he will breed discon- 
tent over an entire plantation, and the brutes 
won^t work so well. IVe noted it often. Now I 
do not want to have that sort of feeling in my 
fields. I have too much work to do. And it is 
bad for a plantation when people say females are 
flogged there. So you comprehend my several 
reasons for not going before the regidors with 
my claim. They would be just and grant it, but 
they would also be unbending, and the slave- 
woman would be cut in stripes for her duplicity. 
Now, knowing the case, can you without annoy- 
ance to yourself assist in it?^’ 

'' I think so,’’ said Victor Lamort, slowly. He 
understood now why the survey had not been 
given to him at once — Zanalta wished to pur- 
chase a favor with it. Well, as Zanalta stated 
his own case, it sounded reasonable enough. It 
would be but little to do — that, a stroke of a pen 
to a document calling for the subservience of a 
slave to his master, and in exchange — 


292 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


You have proofs, of course, of your claim?’' 
he asked. ''Are they satisfactory?” 

"Entirely. The confession of the mother — 
but we will speak of that when the paper is pre- 
pared, and that may be to-night, for I dislike 
much to carry the weight of a disagreeable duty 
undone. At what hour could I call on you in the 
matter?” 

"This or to-morrow evening, after the dark- 
ness falls. All the day hours of this week I shall 
have little leisure.” 

"This or to-morrow evening? I am most 
grateful, monsieur. You will surely see me, and 
with me the ancient survey we spoke of. In fact 
I think of voyaging for a few weeks along the 
coast to the east if weather promises fair; any 
fine wind might tempt me, and it would be well 
to have these land cares off my hands.” 

" A voyage along the coast ? ” remarked Mon- 
sieur Lamort, with polite interest. "Yes, the sea 
is attractive to many at this fair season. May 
good weather attend you, Sehor Zanalta.” 

And then the gentlemen separated, each well 
satisfied with the meeting, and at once on the 
departure of his guest Sehor Zanalta commenced 
again a diligent search for that survey; but in 
no corner was it found. All the threats launched 
at the household — and they were many and lurid 
— failed to discover any vestige of it or any one 
who had disturbed it. 

But the afternoon was slipping away. Much 


MONSIEUR LAMORT PAYS A VISIT 293 


was to be done. When once he made a move 
toward the recovery of that slave he meant to act 
as a falcon swoops with unerring swiftness on its 
victim. No time for cry or protest must be al- 
lowed, no hesitation to give others time to coun- 
ter-plan; every detail of arrangement must be 
planned ere a word of his real meaning was 
uttered. Meanwhile — that survey! 

And then Don Diego Zanalta busied himself 
with various parchments, and finally selecting 
one, called for red ink. His memory of the main 
landmarks was good enough to make a rough 
draft of the domain. At a casual glance it might 
be accepted as the original; the duplicity would 
not be discovered until after he was aboard ship, 
and even on his return, how simple to protest that 
the original had been purloined without his 
knowledge, that he had acted in good faith, and 
the spurious copy was a mystery to him. 

So he worked, completing even the red letter- 
ing on the roll, and giving it much the appearance 
of the one missing. Then he called for black 
Gourfi, who listened to some orders, departed 
with dispatch as he was bidden, and returned ere 
long, but shook his head when his master glanced 
past him into the corridor. 

‘‘She did not come; she was not even to be 
seen,'' he announced. And his master flung the 
pen down, with angry words. 

“Give me the reason — where has she gone?" 

“No farther than an inner room, master; but 


294 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


a sick man is there — a priest — they name him 
Father Luis. He came down the river with the 
red men. He is old — he needs care; and the 
Master Lamort bade Venda not to leave his side 
this day and this night. So the people in the 
cook-house told me, and it is true. That is all.'’ 

‘'And enough. It will change my plans for 
twenty-four hours. But you, Gourfi, with a still 
tongue in your head, prepare for me wearing ap- 
parel for a month. Flave it ready to go in a small 
boat any instant it is needed; and — be silent." 


CHAPTER XIV 

DIEGO SEES A GHOST 

Mons. Constante Raynel learned that even 
the path of an accepted lover may have thorns 
amidst the roses of happiness. The thorns in his 
case were, first, Senora Zanalta, whose presence 
he dreaded to such an extent that he walked ever 
in the shadows when waiting in the gardens for 
his beloved, and even planned a rendezvous at 
the house of Monsieur Lamort, where they might 
dare speak aloud once more ; and the other thing 
vexatious to his spirit was Diego Zanalta him- 
self, who had disturbed Madame Villette so 
greatly with his fancies that she insisted her lover 
must haunt his steps, learn where he resorted 


DIEGO SEES A GHOST 


295 


when the darkness fell, and what were the asso- 
ciations to which he must owe his unquiet hours 
of the night, for Ninon never guessed that the 
cause of those unquiet hours might be dark mem- 
ories of his own past. 

And because of her wish had her favorite 
knight undertaken a duty by no means safe or 
pleasant — that of shadowing a gentleman who 
was reputed to use a dagger skillfully. If he 
could have taken Maurice into his confidence the 
task would have troubled him less ; but his little 
governor-general said ‘‘no.’’ 

“ And I may be given a slit with a knife in the 
darkness, and no one ever know what became of 
me,” he lamented; for in his own mind he had 
an idea that Senor Diego was simply a smuggler, 
and his absence at night a very simple affair to 
those in his confidence. 

But as the dusk fell he was at a station where 
the domain of Zanalta could be viewed, and as the 
last bar of yellow light died over the western lev- 
els he saw a sailor pass, a swarthy half-breed, 
with glinting tinsel showing here and there in 
his apparel — an expression of semi-barbaric 
taste. He halted opposite the house Constante 
was watching, and then as Zanalta himself ap- 
peared at a window he sped across to him, with 
one hand upheld to attract attention. 

Then followed questions and answers, and the 
seaman said, “Yes, the vessel will be at your 
service from this evening, but our commander 


296 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


can not speak to you of it unless it should please 
you to go now to the cafe of Manette. Later he 
is engaged ; to-morrow he is engaged/’ 

Zanalta smiled as he answered, “Your master 
will no longer bear the title of the 'night-hawk’ 
if he receives company so early. We may soon 
hope to greet him at noonday if this continues. 
But return to him with my compliments; say I 
will be with him ere long.” 

Constante was too far away to hear their 
words, only their nods and gestures were visible ; 
and he strolled deeper into the shadows as the 
messenger repassed the spot where he had stood. 
His steps carried him so far that he found him- 
self near a lattice where a light shone, and where 
the voice of Sehora Zanalta made the air heavy 
with ire. She was venting her wrath on some 
slave, and calling the saints to witness her own 
patience under the trials laid on her by that 
household. 

The listener slipped away by a more round- 
about path, lest she should look from the lattice 
and discover his unforgiven self. In doing so 
more time was consumed than he had reckoned 
on, and when he again came in sight of the house 
entrance, Don Diego was just turning the oppo- 
site corner with all possible speed; the watcher 
took his track, keeping as little space as he dared 
between them, but he found the distance long 
enough, for Zanalta had a most troublesome way 
of looking behind him often — of stopping and 


DIEGO SEES A GHOST 


297 


peering into shadowy paths if any crossed his 
own — all the nervous actions of a man who is 
afraid of something near him but unseen. 

Constante had heard rumors of his skill with 
hiked steel — of duels in Old Spain, and of men 
who had fallen victims to his excellence in that 
fine art. Did he carry the memory of them with 
him when the night fell? His follower mentally 
decided yes. 

Much more certain was he when close by the 
thick willows near the river Zanalta halted, with 
a cry that was neither scream nor moan, but a 
mingling of each, a strangling, strained note of 
horror sounding through the darkness. It was 
scarcely a cry for help, yet Constante, who could 
move lightly and in silence because of the skin 
shoes he wore, sped over the path to his side or 
rather, behind him, where he too paused abruptly, 
for close in front of them a man stood in the 
shadows — a man with a strange, pale face and 
stern eyes; his mouth was hidden by a mustache 
and the fur cap of a voyageiir covered his head. 
His dress also was that of the ranger — the 
fringed leggings and hunting-coat, the knotted 
scarf of scarlet at the throat. Constante noted 
it all with the trained eye of an artist. Strangest 
of all, the loose gown of a priest was thrown over 
the shoulders of the figure, while the eyes were 
bent significantly on the face of Zanalta, and one 
hand was left aloft, pointing heavenward, as if in 
judgment. 


298 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


And to this figure Diego Zanalta was mutter- 
ing in supplicating tones. 

‘'Again! Oh, cross of the Christ! Can you 
not rest? It is done — it is all over — masses can 
be said — that is all. I did not do it — I never 
touched your knife — you know. If you would 
speak. O God! anything would be better than 
this silence, and your face everywhere! Speak, 
though it kill me! You poison life with your 
cursed eyes. Speak, De Bayarde, or I — 

He leaped forward, convulsed by a sort of fu- 
rious fear, and as the figure seemed to recede be- 
fore him, he fell in a fainting-fit where it had 
stood. 

The fall broke the spell of utter wonder which 
had bound Raynel, and he bent over the man 
to see if he had indeed died in that terror. When 
he raised his eyes again toward that silent accuser 
nothing was there but the dusky shadows and the 
faint lights yet lingering on the willow-stems. 

It was all so strange to him. His head was in 
a whirl ; his hair seemed to lift his hat when the 
form was no longer to be seen. And then the 
thought that he was there in the willows with a 
dead man! 

But Zanalta was not dead; he soon breathed, 
and even spoke, begging to be taken home, out 
of the shadows. 

“ And it is you ? ’’ he said, finally. “ How — but 
you will tell me later. Well, it is you. I am 
ill. I will go to-morrow — not later — you tell 


DIEGO SEES A GHOST 


299 


Rochelle; but you do not know him. My head 
swims; I can't think; but I'll go to-morrow." 

And that night, despite the orders of Madame 
Ninon, Constante betook himself to Maurice, and 
recounted the wonderful events of the evening 
with more exactness than he had ventured to tell 
his betrothed, fearing she would think he also 
needed a guardian if he was beginning to see 
forms in each shadowy place. 

And Maurice, with his mind yet filled with that 
late-learned history of De Bayarde, sat long after 
the departure of Constante trying to fathom the 
mystery of this strange appearance. He under- 
stood more clearly now the words of Zanalta that 
first evening at Monsieur Lamort's — his earnest 
desire to hear what the others thought of spirit 
returns. Had this wraith of the past been haunt- 
ing his steps so long? Was it a wraith, or a 
reality? and if the latter, who was trading on a 
resemblance to that exiled man for the purpose 
of frightening Zanalta? Was Rochelle inter- 
ested, that Zanalta had spoken of him at once on 
regaining consciousness — Rochelle, the peculiar 
man who was never seen on Orleans Island when 
the sun shone, but whose night visits had led peo- 
ple to attribute evil character to the mystery 
about him ? 

Maurice Delogne had, however, been able to 
discover no single evil thing against him in the 
official annals of the island, or on the books of 
the regidors. No complaints, no charges of 


300 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


smuggling or other tamperings with law. After 
that evening when Don Zanalta had disclaimed 
knowledge of the Sea Gull's commander Maurice 
had, out of his instinctive dislike of the man, dis- 
trusted him. He had learned that the sailors of 
Monsieur Rochelle were all credited with being 
half-breeds ; no man entirely white had ever been 
seen with him as companion. Generally he was 
alone, and his wagers and winnings at the card- 
table were things notorious among the limited 
circle with whom he played; and Delogne had 
learned that Zanalta was one of the aristocratic 
few. Never a plebeian in Rochelle's game ; only 
with the best blood of Orleans would he take 
part in play, and the best blood was invariably 
worsted by the gamester whom they in return 
called a smuggler and buccaneer. But Delogne 
himself decided that he was simply a clever ad- 
venturer, who assumed a mysterious manner of 
life the better to awe the credulous and impose 
on them with his tricky games. 

And in spite of himself he could not but con- 
nect the night-hawk — the man of whom the 
people loved to romance — with the apparition 
seen there on the river- walk; some wager of the 
gamester, perhaps. But the motive and the man- 
ner of the phantom were not to be fathomed by 
any of his conjectures, though his mind was alert 
because of those late confidences of Monsieur 
Lamort, whom he wished with all his heart he 
could acquaint with the story ere he slept — an 


VENDA 


301 


impossibility, however, as Monsieur Lamort, 
after retiring to his own rooms for the day or 
night, never allowed himself to be intruded upon. 

But one member of the household heard the 
story as Monsieur Raynel told it, one who knelt 
outside the door and listened with pleased eyes 
and nodding head. When the horror and fright 
of Don Zanalta was described she hugged herself 
and rocked to and fro as if in silent laughter, but 
not a sound did she utter; and the ailing priest 
whom she tended scarcely missed her brown face 
and gentle hand about him, her departure and 
return were so swift and silent. 


CHAPTER XV 

VENDA 

But as the sun waned the next day it was no 
laughing Venda who faced her former master 
and listened to his commands with frowning 
brows. 

'^So! this why Gourfi come there and say, 
‘Master lost something; he want Venda the vou- 
dou to find it for him quick.' I see now Gourfi 
lie. It is not a loss you have met. And why 
should I tell lie too, eh? No good to do it. Venda 
never had child ; all old negresse know that. No, 


302 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


Venda not want Cabildo men to put irons on her 
for that/' 

Zanalta stared at her gloomily. His own dis- 
like to a conversation with her was made more 
difficult by her stupid objections. 

‘‘You are not to decide. Your master is to 
judge; and no matter whose gold pays for you, 
Diego Zanalta is ever your master — do you 
hear? The judges will never hear that you bore 
no child. I, Zanalta, say you had one. You also 
say so, else the judges will of a certainty hear 
strange things of you — things worse than the 
irons that frighten you. Well do you know what 
I mean.” 

And her eyes showed that she did know. One 
dark glance of beseeching and of hatred was 
turned on him, but she said no word. He smiled 
a little at the satisfaction of his power over her. 

“ As for the child,” he continued, “ it is a child 
no longer. It is of mixed blood, but looks white, 
and is wrongfully received among ladies who are 
white. It is only right that it should be changed. 
Once, years ago, you were with your mistress, 
Felice, the winter she died at the plantation Solle. 
A child could have been born there ; no one would 
know.” And then she looked relieved at some 
new thought. “ But, master, I, Venda, could not 
have a white child — it could not be; not I, a dark 
woman.” 

“Such things have been — will be often, when 
the father is white.” 


VENDA 


303 


'‘White father — oh!’' And she gazed at him 
with questioning eyes, waiting for that which 
she saw he was about to tell her. From his desk 
he took a long piece of paper and unfolded it. 

" You promise ? ” he demanded. She hesitated. 
The paper looked so like one she had heard read 
by the Cabildo man years ago when the brand of 
hot iron had fallen on her. The thought of that 
time made her tremble in her heart. Ah, those 
judges ! 

"You promise, or I, Diego Zanalta, will say to 
the rulers things that will send you to death ere 
two suns pass. Speak! Will you claim the girl 
as I tell you?” 

"Yes, Venda will do it,” she assented, slowly. 
" Tell her what she is to do. Where is the child? ” 

He smiled that he had vanquished her so easily, 
and knew well she would never willingly serve 
him ; but after that punishment long ago her fear 
of the law was great. 

He opened the paper, reading extracts from it 
that she might grasp the meaning. 

"I, Diego Zanalta, affirm, etc., and hold that 
the slave- woman Venda, now the property of 
Victor Lamort, purchased by me from the estate 
of Gaston le Noyens, was, while my prop^ty, 
delivered of a child on the plantation of Madame 
Marie Solle, which child, being of white skin, she 
concealed from her owner, and did wrongfully 
and in secret convey to the foundling basket of 
the Ursuline convent on the night of Christmas, 


20 


304 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


177 — , hoping it would be reared apart from the 
people of color, where it belonged. At last her 
guilt has been discovered, and Don Zanalta, be- 
cause of her full and penitent confession, desires 
that no punishment be visited upon her, and only 
asks the return of the girl, who is his legal prop- 
erty, as her mother was owned by him at the time 
of the birth. More, he begs, for the sake of the 
good nuns and their worthy work, that the mu- 
latto girl be given up by them without protest, 
and thus avert the scandal that would ensue if it 
goes abroad that the daughters of the planters 
and ladies of noble blood have been trained side 
by side with a slave, and that she has been treated 
in all ways as their peer. 

''The woman Venda further confesses that the 
girl is the daughter of her late master, Gaston 
le Noyens, and Don Zanalta is desirous of giving 
the girl due consideration because of that fact 
and because of her refinement, but most earnestly 
demands the righting of this wrong, that he may 
remove this present cause of insult to every lady 
who is a pupil of the convent. The girl has been 
given the name of Denise by the nuns, and by 
that name I do request her. Beseeching the gra- 
cious clemency, etc. 

"You see,'' he continued, putting aside the 
paper, " you have nothing to do when the Alcalde 
reads this paper but to say it is all true and that 
you were the black woman who was seen bearing 


VENDA 


305 


a child to the convent gate. You comprehend? 
Say just that and no more.’’ 

She looked at him with a face that appeared 
ashen in the bright light, and her lips seemed stiff 
when she tried to speak. 

''Oh, you need not stare like that because Le 
Noyens’ name is mentioned,” and he spoke impa- 
tiently ; " that is the only safe way, and is reason- 
able enough. Remember if they ask you, you 
must say the child was born at the plantation of 
Madame Solle when you were allowed by my per- 
mission to wait on Mademoiselle Felice during 
her last illness, and that you yourself carried the 
child into the town and left it at the convent gate 
on that Christmas night.” 

"On — the — Christmas — night,” she repeat- 
ed, as if trying to beat the meaning of it in on her 
own mind. " But, master — oh, the good God ! — 
master — ” 

"Enough of that!” he commanded; "no pro- 
tests, and no begging off. You have promised, 
and you must do it, just as I have told you. Must ! 
do you hear?” 

"But — oh, listen! Yes, I promise — oh God! 
Venda do all you want if you only tell her clear 
about that child. It died — that child in the con- 
vent basket — it died. I know — I heard.” 

"No doubt; you hear everything, and I am 
glad you remember the time. Yes, a child died 
there, but it was the other child died. Two were 
left there that night — one with a white skin and 


306 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


one that looked like an Indian, or colored child. 
The dark one was dead in the morning, but the 
white one is the girl Denise.’’ 

‘'They said it died — they said it died,” she 
repeated, with her hands at her own throat, as 
one looks when strangling. 

He looked at her sharply, but her wild despair- 
ing face told him nothing but her own personal 
fear of the judges and the risk of the lie she was 
to tell. 

“But I tell you it did not — it is alive, and is 
the child of Venda, once called Zizi, and of Gas- 
ton le Noyens, her master. That is all you are 
to remember; and it is to be settled at the house 
of your new master, Monsieur Lamort.” 

“At his house!” she muttered; “his house!” 
She was turning to walk away when Zanalta 
stepped in front of her. 

“ Mind, no trickery in this,” he said, and 
warned her with an upraised finger. “ You had 
better be dead than prove false in this — you 
know.” 

“ I know,” she assented, and her head drooped. 
“I have promised. I will be there; I will say I 
left the white child with the nuns. I will speak 
when the time comes.” 

And her voice sounded dead and heavy; her 
step was as the step of a very old woman as she 
passed out through the halls where her home 
once had been. In the garden of roses she stooped 
and touched softly a drooping branch, white and 


VENDA 


307 


fragrant. '' Venda love to touch you, little white 
rose,'' she muttered, as though speaking to a liv- 
ing thing. '' Venda like just so the white Denise 
all these times and never did know why. Now 
maybe she never see either one of you again. 
Good-by, little white rose." 

She walked straight to the gates of the con- 
vent. Once there she knew not what she had 
come to say. She felt dull and stupid, and sat for 
a while on the crisp dry grass outside the gate; 
sat there while people passed and crossed them- 
selves at sight of the black witch woman who sat 
as if weaving spells at the very gate of the sacred 
retreat. But she was blind for once to their 
shrinking and awe of her. All her thought was, 
‘‘Will they listen — will the voudou be believed 
when she tells at last the truth?" 

Then she rose and walked straight to the 
guarded gate, where she made request for the 
grand mother superior, who seemed quite a royal 
person in the colony. But no audience was pos- 
sible so late in the day, so the chatelaine of the 
gate replied ; and, anyway, no slave would be ad- 
mitted without announcing for what her master 
or mistress had sent her. 

And Venda was barred out by that, for she 
had no message from a master; but she looked 
pleadingly in the gentle face of the aged nun, and 
bowed her head with that barbaric obeisance of 
respect. 

'' Might the slave who has no master’s orders 


308 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


ask one question when it is for good and not 
evil?^’ 

“ Surely/’ assented the kindly soul, much im- 
pressed by the strange brown woman whose hair 
was so white above her youthful face. 

“The things that are spoken within these gates 
are never whispered to the people there?” and 
Venda pointed to the town. 

“We keep many secrets,” confessed the nun; 
and Venda’s face brightened as she saw she was 
understood. 

“ So! it is good. This is secret. Listen! One 
Christmas a child, Denise, was left here — is it 
so? Yes? If you love her, ask the ruler of this 
house to have ready any clothes or writings that 
came with her into the foundling basket — any 
of the smallest things even that would help to 
show what people she came of. Do not look so! 
I am not touched with the head sickness — I tell 
you the truth. Soon, I know not what day, a 
grand sehor will come here and call her his. Bid 
them have each thing ready, that no wrong may 
be done. The slave-woman may tell you no more 
than that ; but your convent child may fall in dan- 
ger if you pay no heed to the word I bring. I 
come for good, not for evil. Good-by.” 

On the way to her master’s house she met 
many Indians of the Natchez. They chattered 
more than usual. They talked in groups, and 
seemed glad ; sometimes they shook hands as the 
white men do, and their eyes smiled even when 


VENDA 


309 


their tongues were silent. And one man who 
was past middle age was embraced by a group in 
which was one very old Indian woman. He was 
her son, and had been held in slavery thirty years. 
Others of the group were his brothers, who had 
come with her to greet him when his freedom 
came. 

Absolute freedom was not yet given, but the 
governor had been pleased to grant many conces- 
sions, for in the face of the law when it was held 
up before him he could do no less; and the half- 
freed slaves were joyous that even the thin edge 
of the wedge had been forced through the wall 
of the white man’s wishes. 

And Venda reading their faces saw they were 
glad of heart — they were almost free; and she 
held her hands tight over her bosom — she, who 
would only know freedom through the gate of 
death. Like all of her race, she feared the dark- 
ness and oblivion of the grave. Yet one dies so 
many times while one breathes and walks the 
earth ; would the final death be harder than the 
things she had lived through? It seemed to her 
not, as she sought the master whom she rever- 
enced — sought him that she might confess a 
long-lived evil she had lived through; and when 
she had told him all, she knew he would hate her 
— he would banish her forever from his sight. 

Well, it was only one more death ! 

But seek where she would, he was not to be 
found. The sun was sinking, and she grew 


310 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


feverish in her anxiety lest time enough would 
not be granted her. She went away from his 
house and from the Cabildo, and walked along 
the river-side, watching ever the forms and faces 
round about. She was restless as the ever-mov- 
ing waves on the shore. 

Then she caught sight of a shapely boat fast- 
ened to the beach, while the only occupant 
lounged there lazily and smoked a cigarette. She 
knew the craft, as she knew most faces that came 
to the town. She went down close to the man 
before she spoke. 

‘'Do you wait here for your master?’’ she 
asked; and the sailor, Nicholas, looked up at her 
and scowled sulkily. 

“No such luck. I wait here for one of the 
noble gallants such as you love to serve in the 
town here. You are the witch, they say; so you 
should know both the lord and the lady for whose 
pleasure-trip this craft waits from sundown until 
dawn of three nights.” 

“Three nights? and this is the last?” 

“To-morrow is the last.” 

“And they elope?” 

“ Who knows ? Who she is has not been told ; 
but the boat waits.” 

She looked out over the water. The setting 
sun was just tinging it into lances of flame where 
the ripples moved. She drew a long breath of 
relief ; she feared the truth, but was glad at' the 
thought that another day’s time might be given, 


VENDA 


311 


would likely be given, for it was growing late. 
He could not have meant to-night. 

''Tell me — can I see your master?’’ she asked, 
suddenly; but he only sneered at her. 

" Perhaps, if you know where to look for him ; 
I do not.” 

" I think you lie,” she said, carelessly; "but you 
mean to keep faith, and that is good. Will you 
tell me, then, if among the many people who pass 
you have seen the face of Master Victor 
Lamort ? ” 

"I think not,” he growled, and looked at her 
suspiciously; "but you need not ask me about 
your grand sehors of the town there. I care little 
to remember their faces or names.” 

"You are an ill beast for a woman to waste 
words with,” she remarked, and turned away. 
Then, noting the clear, warm sky and placid 
waters, added, "Well, if Sehor Zanalta makes 
choice of to-night for his flitting he is like to have 
fine weather, eh?” 

The straight, contemptuous mouth of Nicholas 
curved ever so little at her clever guess. 

"So you do know? They tell me you are a 
voudou witch and know most things. Now down 
in San Domingo I knew a voudou woman; she — ” 

But Venda walked away, as if careless of his 
words. She had learned more than she came for, 
and with her added fund of knowledge sought 
again her master. 


312 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


And Nicholas watched her go, and muttered 
sullenly to himself : 

'' Master Captain told me once to do good turn 
for that white-head nigger if she ever came my 
way. Um ! Master is queer in the head with his 
kindness. What she want with captain — her? 
I always did hate niggers.’' 

And he smoothed his hair where the black 
blood showed in the ebon curls, and stared with 
somber envy at the men of the Natchez moving 
along the banquette in their gay woven blankets, 
and that proud, unconquered look in their eyes — 
they, the red men, could walk out from their 
shackles and be hailed by their kindred as war- 
riors once more, but the African ! Nicholas mut- 
tered imprecations on the curse set in the blood 
of the black people — a curse so heavy that it was 
ground into their hearts and brains; and their 
courage and hope dwindled under the weight of 
it until they never dared in the presence of white 
men to bear themselves dauntless as those red 
men whom he envied. 

And so he lay there and sulked, thinking of the 
black blood in his own veins — the blood he hated ; 
and not realizing that the greatest general the 
world had seen for a century past, or would see in 
the century to come, was a black man, even then 
growing into power on that same island of San 
Domingo — the man who freed his brother slaves 
despite the allied forces of England and Spain, 
whose strongholds and ships he destroyed, and 


A RENDEZVOUS 


313 


drove them from the Southern waters despite the 
trained endeavors of France, who sent an army 
against him; and fifty thousand French graves 
are left on that island as testimony to his prowess. 
The man whose name and deeds would be sung 
as the world sings of heroes, had not the most 
powerful nations of that time been smarting un- 
der the hurts he had given them. Their poets 
had no songs of praise for the ''accursed black’' 
who left but fragments of their defeated armies. 

But Nicholas swaying idly there in his boat 
knew nothing of that great heart of slave-born 
Toussaint L’Ouverture, the heart aching even 
then over the woes of the dark people; and look- 
ing across at the Natchez, who called him the 
"curled head,” Nicholas wished himself all of 
Natchez blood, because in his ignorance he fan- 
cied that the black blood came from the heart of 
cowards. 


CHAPTER XVI 

A RENDEZVOUS 

All that day Maurice Delogne had been rest- 
less as the very spirit of the wind. The prospect 
held out to him by Monsieur Lamort, the recov- 
ery of the estate he had so little hope of regain- 
ing, opened up a new vista — and then, perhaps. 


314 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


he would dare kneel for the favors of the Lady 
Denise. 

The Lady Denise! It was the title dearest of 
all dear things to him, and he was even foolishly 
glad that she had no added name. She was not 
as other maidens; she was a fair white mystery, 
a strong, gentle spirit, such as old legends tell of. 
All the soft warm winds of the south brought him 
whispers of Denise — Denise; every rustle of the 
leaves, every ripple along the edge of the water 
where it made music kissing the shore; and the 
silent influence of her seldom-seen face, her name, 
her voice, wrought wondrous changes in the 
young man’s mind. The Lady Denise — it was a 
name to conjure with, and under the witchery 
of it Maurice grew more tolerant even of the love 
aflfairs of Constante, and listened with more sym- 
pathy to the latest details of the course of his true 
love and the disturbing influence of Senora 
Zanalta. 

And ere the dusk fell he was amused to see the 
approach of Madame Ninon Villette from one 
direction and the ardent Constante from another, 
each bending uncertain steps toward the dwelling 
of Monsieur Lamort — a rendezvous without a 
doubt, and a pretty sure sign that the irate lady 
from Madrid was yet formidable. 

‘'Their infatuation is most surely blinding 
them to the conventional in conduct,” he thought 
as he observed them. “ They defy comment and 
slip here like two guilty people to confer in secret 


A RENDEZVOUS 


315 


— here where no lady’s presence gives counte- 
nance to their meeting. Ah, well, I too would 
lack wisdom after the same fashion if the lady 
of my love would give me smiles such as are lav- 
ished on Constante. Yet — yet her eyes surely 
fell kindly on me, though her words were chill 
and chiding. Oh! that I dared hope she was 
chiding her own heart when she spoke to me.” 

He entered with eager interest into the gossip 
of the lovers over the strange state of mind into 
which Diego Zanalta had fallen of late, and 
calmed somewhat the fears of Madame Villette 
on the question. These were troublous times in 
state affairs — revolt among the French people 
and among the slaves of the Spanish islands. 
Many a master of plantations was nervous and 
watchful these days, and slept none too soundly 
at night. So he assured her, and she was rather 
glad to be convinced that his unrest had a sub- 
stantial cause instead of an imaginary one; it 
seemed less uncanny. 

Monsieur I.amort was not visible, but Delogne 
explained that much of his time had been spent 
with the aged priest brought by the red men from 
the far north lakes, now a guest in the house, and 
one requiring much attention because of fatigue 
and the infirmities of age. 

Madame Villette would willingly have added 
her share to the attentions paid the long-exiled 
holy man, but that he was not yet considered 
strong enough ; and the fetters of Constante were 


316 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


riveted even more tightly by the tender interest 
she evinced in the unknown one. 

''He shall be at our house if he will so far 
honor us/' she declared. " It is a blessed privi- 
lege to entertain warriors so dauntless as those 
who travel with but a staff and the love of heaven 
wherewith to conquer the souls of the savage 
men. He shall be one of our household at his 
own pleasure." 

Delogne had withdrawn for a short time, and 
her words were to Constante, for whom her smile 
was sweetly inquiring, as of one who would 
mutely ask commendation. It is so sweet in the 
earlier stages of love's fever to defer thus to the 
ideas of another. 

"To be sure," assented Raynel, airily. "The 
sooner the better, madame. Perhaps with a 
priest ever at your elbow you would be sooner im- 
pelled to exchange vows with me at his bidding." 

"To plight my troth to you, as the English 
say." 

" More, oh star of love in my night-time ! To 
vow yourself my bride." 

"How impetuous! Surely, the troth comes 
first. Have you then considered in seriousness 
our idle chat by the lattice?" 

" Madame, you are pleased to jest this evening, 
and your own eyes deny the tone of your speech. 
I pray you, give over making light of emotions 
so sincere. Wit is brilliant, but cruel; it kills 
feeling." 


A RENDEZVOUS 


317 


'' Oh, monsieur, how fortunate your own is in- 
sured so long a life ! ’’ 

“Do you want me to destroy myself?^’ he de- 
manded, with a ferocious expression, and 
tramped back and forward past her in the most 
successful melodramatic fashion, while Madame 
Ninon, not ill pleased, watched him from the cor- 
ners of her charming eyes. 

“ Of a truth, monsieur, I wish no harm to you ; 
yet I have indeed envied those beauties whom 
men loved well enough to die for.'' And madame 
glanced up to mark the effect of her words, for 
he had halted directly before her. ‘‘But for my- 
self — oh, no; I never hope to be loved so well." 

“Ah ! but I entreat you to believe that it is so," 
he declared. “ Love like that awaits your pleas- 
ure. But why should I die unless there is cause ? 
Then, if it were to serve you, I would live no 
more." 

“You say so," hesitated the coquette. “But 
after all you are a gay cavalier — oh, I have 
heard so, monsieur. You dare not say I am your 
first love; and what assurance have I that I am 
to be your last?" 

Constante's face actually paled at her words. 
Angels of heaven ! what stories had come to her ? 
With all his heart he wished he could present a 
record like that of a stolid vegetable gardener of 
the German coast up the river. But, alas! the 
fancies of days long forgotten came trooping into 


318 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


his memory like jovial ghosts, every one of them 
laughing at him. 

''In fact,’' continued his tormentor, "remarks 
have not been lacking in our household to the 
effect that you Avould not have vv^ooed so eagerly 
the poor Ninon Villette had the poor Ninon not 
been gilded — nay, monsieur, look not so angry; 
I only make mention of this that you may 
understand how I have been assailed, and how I 
have been brought to consider your haste. I pro- 
test I find you a most gentle cavalier, but to speak 
of troth so hastily — well, even yet I fancy you 
do not understand what it will mean to wed on 
these shores a lady who is poor. You have not 
seen the poor but gently born people who live 
here, many of them in the most humble way ; and 
until you understand that my husband’s will was 
peculiar, and that even the portion of his wealth 
that is mine during widowhood will be — ” 

But Constante checked her revelations with 
the impetuosity of a lover, and again his arms 
were about her as he knelt at her feet. 

" Give over, I pray you, all this wise chatter of 
gold and its weight,” he protested; "all words 
from your lips sound sweet to me, but why waste 
our chance happy moments with such conjec- 
tures? In every land an able man can win a 
home for the woman he loves, and with your love 
as a goal — ah, heavens! — I feel I could conquer 
half this wilderness. You shake your head — 
you yet think of the gold of which I think no 


A RENDEZVOUS 


319 


more ? Believe me, if by ending your widowhood 
you lose your fortune, I vow to make a cottage 
love so joyous to you that you will never regret 
the mansion you leave behind/’ 

Now Madame Ninon adored such love-making. 
It was much more to her liking than the more 
ceremonious proposals addressed to her by vari- 
ous dignified and important gentlemen of the col- 
ony. But content as she was with her wooer, she 
was not wise enough to let well alone, but said, 
with archness and provoking glances at his rap- 
turous face: 

'‘You speak of the gold of which you think no 
more; do you acknowledge, then, that you did 
once care for it?” 

And Constante, in the idiocy of love, and with 
the conviction that he must not aspire to the sanc- 
tity of her heart with any shadow of a lie on his 
own soul, did then most foolishly reveal former 
fancies and visions of wealth that now paled into 
insignificance beside the day-star of his passion. 

“ Then you once did have mercenary dreams ? ” 

Constante thought her soft tones filled with 
incredulity and sympathy, and blundered on. 

“Most certainly. Ask Maurice — he knows. 
You see I was foolish ; I had dreamed of finding 
a rich wife on these shores.” 

“Oh, you did?” 

“ Indeed, yes. How far away that folly looks ! 
So when I heard — yes, beloved, I will confess all 


21 


320 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


the sin of it — when I heard of the beautiful 
widow of Villette — charming, and rich — ’’ 

‘‘Oh, monster! He will kill me, this French 
barbarian! Was the end of your scheme, mon- 
sieur, to lock me in a convent or strangle me in 
the waters of the great river? Oh, I shall die! 
Do not seek to argue with me. I am sure I shall 
die!’’ 

And as a recompense for his straightforward 
relation of the truth to her, Constante found him- 
self on his knees before an empty chair and the 
vision of his departing lady-love as she impetu- 
ously made a stormy retreat into the court. 

“Shall I follow her? Will she forever refuse 
to look on me again? Must my life then end in 
some monk’s cell — alone and desolate?” were a 
few of the questions he asked himself. “ Oh, fool 
that I am! Why did I tell her? Fool — angel 
that she is ! Why did she not hear the rest of the 
story? I’ll go mad!” 

But in the going he almost fell over Maurice, 
who entered at that moment, and who gazed on 
Constante with astonished eyes. 

“Did you see her? Is she angry beyond par- 
don? Oh, I beg you to tell me, when my soul’s 
happiness depends on it.” 

“You mean Madame Villette? Yes, I passed 
her in the room beyond. Pray what has chanced 
to separate you so soon?” 

“Oh, my accursed tongue — my lack of wit. 
She spoke truly when she said I lacked wit sadly. 


A RENDEZVOUS 


321 


Tell me, I beg of you, how did she look — what 
did she say? Was she weeping? Oh, Ninon, 
Ninon!’’ 

Delogne managed at last to learn the reason of 
his despair, but avoided making any statement as 
to the lady’s expression or possible state of mind, 
for, amused as he was, he dare not tell the frantic 
lover that he had come upon Madame Ninon 
laughing most heartily under the palm-trees. 

'' She asked only to be admitted to the aged 
priest of whom we spoke, so you had best not 
follow her there with your stumbling speech. It 
is only right that you do penance in solitude for 
a while. You, upon my word, are the last man I 
should think so simple as to tell such truths to a 
woman.” 

“T vow if she forgives me this time never to 
tell her the truth again,” declared the troubled 
wooer with great earnestness; ''and if you will 
permit me I will at least remain here until she 
needs an escort home. May the saints move her 
to pardon me ! ” 

" Stay, and welcome. Have you been at the 
Cabildo to-day, or heard more of the red men and 
their cause ? What say the planters ? ” 

" Much that is not complimentary to our friend 
Lamort,” confessed the other. "I assure you 
there is a divided idea abroad as to whether he 
is an angel of light for the help of the lower 
classes or a demon of darkness for the overthrow 
of the rulers, and for the stripping away of all 


322 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


the cloaks from their luxurious, careless sins. It 
is well he is brave, else he could not hope to 
weather the storm he has raised.’' 

Is Durande so bitter about the red slaves ? ” 
“ Furious. And Sehor Ronando is ever at his 
elbow to exclaim over the injustice of setting 
them free; in fact more than one planter sees in 
it perhaps a future uprising of the black slaves 
as well, and of course it would ruin the colony to 
set them free. But Monsieur Lamort is a com- 
parative stranger and does not think for the fu- 
ture here. They say he only follows wild whims, 
and Satan seems to aid him in his scheme. I tell 
you, Maurice, I esteem him highly, but strange 
things are said of him, even witchcraft is whis- 
pered, for he brings forward laws and testaments 
that the judges dare not disdain — legal docu- 
ments of the early Spanish rule, things singular 
for a stranger to own ; and by them he has forced 
unwilling judgment in his favor there at the Ca- 
bildo ; and even the officials who grant his claims 
disapprove them. So you see our friend is stir- 
ring up days of storm for himself.” 

‘‘Perhaps; I doubt if he cares. But tell me, 
has there come to you any further word of Don 
Diego and the specter ? ” 

“ Not a whisper. I did but show my face there 
this noon, and the voice of Sehora Zanalta 
sounded so dangerously near that I made most 
hasty retreat. However, I met him later on the 


A RENDEZVOUS 


323 


banquette, and he then appeared strong and 
composed/’ 

'‘The banquette at noon-time is not a favorite 
promenade with most noble gentlemen here.” 

"True; but Zanalta is often a busy man, and 
goes where his interests call him. A half-Indian 
boatman was his object to-day. Sacre! there he 
is now.” 

"The Indian boatman?” 

"Oh, confusion — no. It is Zanalta, and he 
will not fail to discover Ninon here, and he will 
think it a fine piece of folly that we sally forth to 
meet in another house than his. Hide me, can 
you not? If he finds her alone with the old priest 
he will think her what she is, an angel; but if I 
also am discovered he will think her a fool.” 

Delogne pointed to an adjoining room, and 
Raynel quickly took the hint and disappeared 
there. Settling himself behind some curtains, he 
listened, expecting each instant to hear the soft 
tones of the Spanish gentleman ; but not a sound 
came to him, not even the step of Maurice, who 
must still be standing there by the window facing 
the street. 

With the idea that Don Zanalta had perhaps 
halted at the portal for a chat with some one, and 
would enter directly, Constante remained in his 
nook until the sunlight had disappeared from the 
sky. An early star had slipped from its blue dra- 
peries and shone gleaming and silvery through 
the lattice at him. Half an hour must have 


21a 


324 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


passed, and not a sound. He arose impatiently 
and crossed the threshold of the reception-room. 

Delogne yet stood at the lattice, his eyes gazing 
earnestly out, and his hands clasped tight behind 
him. His face was pale from some effort of self- 
control. 

‘‘Would you have left me there all night, Mau- 
rice?’’ complained his friend. “Each instant I 
expected to hear him speak, yet he evidently 
passed on, and you never called me.” 

The complaint fell on deaf ears, and looking 
at Delogne in wonder for a moment, he crossed 
over beside him, taking him affectionately by the 
arm. “ Maurice, you are ill — what is it? Come, 
rest here. By my faith, you stood there as though 
made of wood or stone. What ails you, man ? ” 

“He went there — to the convent.” And De- 
logne, despite the detaining hand of his friend, 
returned again to his point of lookout. 

“Who do you mean — Zanalta?” 

“He.” 

“ But what of that ! Saints in heaven, what a 
fright you gave me! Your hand is cold, your face 
looks like the dead, and all because a gentleman 
of the town takes the air near the convent gate 
of an evening.” 

“ Be wary ! Though you are my friend, I will 
ever check your jesting on this one subject. I 
tell you his visit there this night bodes ill.” 

“How could that be — whence comes your 
fancy?” 


A RENDEZVOUS 


325 


“I can not tell, but I dare swear I am right. 
All this day a heavy cloud has weighed upon me. 
All my endeavors could not set it aside — a dark 
unformed shadow of foreboding. Here at this 
lattice that shadow took form as I saw Diego 
Zanalta pass onward to the convent. He goes not 
there in the cause of any charity at this hour; I 
am possessed by the fear that he is there for harm 
to the Lady Denise.’’ 

“ Pooh ! you are affrighted at shadows. What 
substance have you to found those fancies upon ? ” 

"'Only the manner of the man when at any 
time she has come within range of his eyes ; and 
she herself dreads him — I know it, for she ever 
avoids his speech or his glance. Oh, I tell you — ” 

He stopped abruptly, with a look on his face 
as if some long-delayed comprehension had been 
granted him. 

"Constante, tell me, where is the knife we 
picked up on the sward that night when the lady 
was assaulted — is it here, or did you keep it? 
Some chance there is to find substance instead of 
shadow for my theory. Where did you put the 
knife?” 

" In your own chest brought over from 
France; if you have not removed it you will 
doubtless find it there in all safety.” 

"Come, then, we will see.” 

A minute later they were bending over the 
chest, and Constante drew the knife from the 
place where he had put it — a slender, wicked 


326 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


blade with a handle of ivory wreathed about with 
twisted silver, a thing too handsome for a poor 
negro to own unless perchance by theft. It re- 
called his own silent suspicion as to the owner. 

Then Delogne sent a slave with a message to 
Madame Ninon Villette, and a moment later the 
patter, patter of her little heels was heard on the 
tiled floor. She assumed an expression of great 
dignity at sight of humble Constante, but smiled 
in a maddening way at the chevalier. 

“Madame, I asked but to be received for an 
instant, and did not presume to ask that you come 
to me,’’ said Maurice, bowing low. 

“What matters it, monsieur? And really I 
was reading aloud to the missionary of the red 
men’s country, and fancied the interruption of 
my absence for a moment would not so much 
disturb him as to hear converse in his presence 
on other topics.” 

“ Ever thinking of others in that kindly heart 
of yours,” smiled the chevalier ; “ and I promise 
not to detain you long from so laudable a duty. 
To settle a vexed question I only wish to ask if 
you have ever before seen this ? ” 

She drew back, looking with startled inquiry 
into his face. 

“What has happened — why do you ask, and 
look so exceedingly earnest? I entreat you to 
tell me if he has done himself aught of injury.'’ 

“If who has injured himself?” asked Delogne. 
But she turned to the other. 


A RENDEZVOUS 


327 


“You, Constante, you know who I mean — tell 
me ! ’’ 

“No, madame ; no injury has been done by 
the knife, if that is what you mean/' And Raynel 
dared move a step or two nearer her in the joy 
of hearing her address him once more. “The 
weapon has been found, and we were not sure as 
to the owner — that is all." 

“Oh!" And she gave a great sigh of relief. 
“ How silly you will think me, my dear Chevalier ! 
But really I have had many disturbing fancies of 
late because of my half-brother's ill health, or 
sleeplessness, for he is not ill, by his own confes- 
sion, but only nervous; and to be asked so 
strangely about his knife — well, I feared he had 
met with some accident." 

“I am disconsolate at having disturbed you." 
And Delogne's face was full of kindly regret. 
“ But you have settled the matter of ownership ; 
and may I now conduct you back to your post of 
mercy?" 

She bowed and rested her fingers on his arm, 
deigning in response to the wistful eyes of Raynel 
only a cool little nod. But he felt sure he was no 
longer beyond hope. Had she not turned to him 
in her wonder and fear ? 

“ Now do you see the substance for that fancy 
of mine ? " demanded Delogne as he returned. 

“You mean that this belongs to Zanalta?" 

“ More than that. The blacks who tried to kid- 
nap her were hirelings of Zanalta. He armed 


328 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


them, or else one of them armed himself from his 
master’s store of cutlery. I felt it was so ere I 
put it in words, just as I felt the approach of evil 
all this day; and it is evil to her again, and from 
that man. Come ! I myself will guard the con- 
vent gate to-night, lest some plot of his should 
draw her out into the darkness. Will you be 
with me ? ” 

''Wait! Is that not the voice of Zanalta now 
in the court?” whispered Constante. 

A moment’s listening proved it true. He was 
asking questions impatiently of a slave at the 
door, a slave who was so stupid as not to know 
when his master would be in. 

But even while they listened a step sounded be- 
hind them, and Monsieur Lamort entered, serene 
and calm as ever. He bowed to the two gentle- 
men, and passed through to the reception-room, 
where he could easily distinguish the voice of 
Zanalta, and also a most impatient tramping as 
he paced the floor. 

And at the instant Lamort disappeared through 
one door the slave- woman Venda appeared at the 
other as though following him. Not the tranquil 
Venda of old, but a woman who breathed hard, 
as one who has moved swiftly. Her eyes were 
bloodshot and strained; she lifted her feet heav- 
ily, as one who is old. She seemed hastening 
to reach her master, but stopped as that other 
voice was heard greeting him. 

Then she turned her face toward the young 


DENISE AND SISTER ANDREA 329 


men, gazed on them in strange, troubled fashion, 
and raised one hand as though waving them back, 
or beseeching them not to follow. 

And with only that mute sign to express her 
prayer, she moved on toward the reception-room — 
alone. 


CHAPTER XVII 

DENISE AND SISTER ANDREA 

In the early dusk two persons stood together at 
the western casement of the convent, two with 
but little of heaven’s peace in their eyes. The 
bonds of earth are strong in the flesh, and the 
beautiful serene Sister Andrea was the most 
despairing of the two. 

She dropped on her knees sobbing, and strove 
to draw Denise with her, but the young girl 
stood white and cold and would not bend. 

‘Hf it is true — if they give me up to him, I 
will never pray again,” she said, with hard deci- 
sion. 

‘'Oh, my child, prayer helps women to bear their 
burdens. You will learn as you grow older how 
it lightens the sorrows that are sent to us. Women 
are weak, Denise, and — ” 

“I am not weak,” and she stretched out her 
arms, and clasped and unclasped her white hands. 


330 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


'' See, do they look like weak hands? You know 
they do not. And if they let him touch me, he 
will need the prayers, not 1. I would never pray 
again.” 

Denise, my poor child, it is terrible to hear 
one so young speak like that ; it is wicked, wicked ! 
And you poor dove, what would all your strength 
do against that man’s will? Many a strong man 
has been caught helpless in his traps, so what 
can you, a mere child, do ? Kneel down and pray 
— pray for this cross to be lifted aside.” 

''No; what use is it? Did not our Mother 
confess that if the signature of the governor or 
of Monsieur Lamort was set to that paper she 
would be obliged to give me up, and that I must 
at least be removed to-morrow, for the reputation 
of the school, lest it be known that one who has 
shared their advantages is after all only a slave? ” 

"Oh, Denise, speak not with so much bitter- 
ness. The good Mother is in great distress of 
mind. She must do the thing she sees to be her 
duty to the convent. She is answerable to the 
church for all her acts; and she knows well this 
man spoke wisely when he said her refusal could 
be made to ruin utterly the school she has tended 
with so much care. And can you not see she longs 
to favor you, else he would have won his argu- 
ment even without the signature, as he evidently 
hoped to do. Oh, Denise, grow not cruel in your 
heart against all people just because of one man 
whose heart is bad.” 


DENISE AND SISTER ANDREA 331 


I could never be cruel in thought to you/’ and 
the cold hand of Denise pressed the head of the 
kneeling nun against her ; and though I should 
find strength to kill him, I know your lips would 
ever utter pitiful prayers for me.” 

‘'Oh, Denise, Denise! It must not be! All 
saints help us ! What shall we do ? ” 

The girl gazed with somber eyes at the sky, 
where the stars shone. Each instant she listened 
for the sound of the bell and the opening of the 
convent gate to the man who called himself her 
master. 

“We can only wait until he comes, I think,” 
she said, in that cold, unchildlike way. “When 
I begged the Mother Superior to let me go to the 
house of Monsieur Lamort she said, ‘No, there 
must be no scandal ; we must wait for the law to 
judge ; and that monsieur would not sign unless 
it was right ; ’ so that leaves us nothing to do but 
wait. And when he does come, with all the power 
of the law, she will expect me to bow my head 
to my master and walk out of that gate at his bid- 
ding. I ! Do they not guess that I would sooner 
cast myself from the roof to that stone paving?” 

The older woman only moaned and knelt, still 
praying, beside the girl who stood as though 
carved of stone. And thus they waited the dread 
tidings. 

Then a hurried step approached in the corridor ; 
not the step of a man, nor had the bell at the gate 


332 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


sounded. It halted at the door, and without tap- 
ping the abbess entered the room. 

Her strong, wise face was much agitated. She 
held a flat packet and her hands were trembling. 

‘'Child, be quick,^’ she said, and reached out 
the little package. “ I give my consent that you 
go at once to the house of the good Monsieur 
Lamort. Take with you this, and tell him I said 
he must read it ere making decision. Its contents 
I know not, and no time is to be lost by reading 
it here. Our blessed Mother Agnace left it. You 
were but a baby when I saw it last, done up just 
as it is now. It is of you, perhaps of your parents, 
it tells. See, there is your name — ‘The child 
called Denise.’ Ah ! the saints be praised that 
I chanced on it among those old parchments! 
But go — go quickly. Take with you old Marie 
of the gate.” 

But Sister Andrea, yet on her knees, spoke : 

“ I pray you no, good mother. If this girl is to 
go thus for judgment, I ask that I may be the one 
to guard her.” 

“You, Sister Andrea, who never go without 
the gate ? ” 

“It is my first request, mother, and we lose 
time.” 

“True. I consent, and may the blessing of God 
go with you. Until you return I shall never cease 
to pray that these papers may prove Senor Zan- 
alta’s claim a great mistake by which he has been 
blinded. Denise — my child!” 


ONCE MORE ZIZI 


333 


She raised her hands in benediction ; but Denise ; 
who had ever before bent humble knee to that 
gesture, only bent her head to the blessing, and 
raised it a little higher as she passed out. The 
thing she felt was a wrong had for the first time 
made her haughty and cold instead of humble. 
And the Mother Superior smiled sadly as she 
watched her go. 

It is said that Gaston le Noyens was a proud 
man,” she mused, and his pride will live as long 
as she lives if she indeed prove to be his daughter. 
A very proud slave, Don Zanalta, and I fear some 
one will suffer besides Denise if she should prove 
to be the child of a slave-woman.” 


CHAPTER XVIII 

ONCE MORE ZIZI 

In the house of Monsieur Lamort the master 
stood facing Diego Zanalta and hesitating over 
the paper before him. 

'' But this is so astonishing ! The convent child 
is then the daughter of Gaston le Noyens and his 
slave-girl Zizi ? ” 

'' Exactly. Since that time the brown woman 
has called herself Venda, but the change of name 
has not changed the woman. She is your slave 
now, but she was mine when that child was born. 


334 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


She confessed all to-day and made her mark 
there. You know the evil wrought in this land 
by white-skinned slaves sharing the associations 
of their superiors; hence my anxiety to remove 
her at once from among these daughters of gen- 
tlemen at the convent. The abbess prays it may 
be done to-night, though she needs legal papers 
ere the girl is transferred to me.'’ 

He was trying, with what show of indifference 
he could, to assume that it was to serve the abbess 
more than himself that he came at so unseemly 
an hour, but his eyes were alight with eagerness 
as he watched Lamort. 

‘‘And my slave Venda was once Zizi of the 
house of Le Noyens?” remarked that gentleman, 
dreamily. “Strange it never occurred to me! 
That explains — ” 

“ Explains what, monsieur ? ” 

Lamort roused himself from his reveries and 
smiled. 

“When one commences to think aloud it is a 
sure sign that he is growing old, is it not, sehor ? 
But I was thinking that her identity with Zizi 
would explain her strange knowledge from the 
very first of every corner of my house, for of 
course she had lived here.” 

“Yes, yes — but this paper, it waits your sign- 
ing.” And Zanalta dipped a quill in the ink-well 
and reached it to Monsieur Lamort. 

“ I strangely dislike the task you bring me,” he 
confessed. “She is a fair maiden for such a curse 


ONCE MORE ZIZI 


335 


to be her portion. Tell me, when once she is in 
your possession would you sell her to me at your 
own price, that I may be sure she never will meet 
the black hands as one they dare claim ? What- 
ever her mother's blood, she is too white a soul 
for the life fair slaves drift into on these shores. 
Pardon my blunt speech, senor, but I would save 
her for higher uses and a life somewhere away 
from her mother's race." 

Zanalta smiled and nodded. 

You think about the girl as I think, monsieur ; 
and though she is the daughter of my slave, by 
that slave's confession, yet I remember also she 
is the child of the one friend I had in my youth 
here — Gaston le Noyens. My sister-in-law sails 
for Madrid in the next ship. The girl shall go 
with her and live her life in fair Spain. So you 
see I too think of her welfare." 

And his gaze was so open, so kindly, that Victor 
Lamort believed him. He looked at the space 
where his name was to be written — he, one of 
the dispensers of justice! And his purpose 
wavered as the thought of Maurice came to him 
— Maurice, whose heart would be broken by the 
knowledge of that paper; Maurice, who idolized 
her, whose every hope was to win her; and yet, 
an illegitimate child, and one of the slave blood, 
to be selected as a wife for one of the Delogne 
family ! No, it would not be wise to allow it. 

'' You are sensible to give so much thought ere 
you act for justice, monsieur," remarked Zanalta, 


336 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


easily. '' But it grows late, and I have brought 
you that ancient plan of the lands you desired so 
much to see. We might find time to examine it 
after we have this other business disposed of. 1 
heard it said only to-day in a discussion of a land 
question that no such accurate survey had ever 
been made of Royal Grant and the surrounding 
estates, and I was at once reminded to look it up 
and bring it over.’’ 

He held in his hand a roll of yellow parchment, 
with the dull-red lettering on the outer scroll and 
the seal of the crown showing on its gilt cord. 

Lamort’s eyes narrowed and shone with a dif- 
ferent light. His hobby, whatever it was, sud- 
denly recurred at the sight of that legal-looking 
document from which he could glean power. This 
other paper before him, with the fate of a life in 
it — with the broken heart of Maurice in it — 
what were all their tinsel joys or sorrows beside 
the work to which he had devoted his soul and 
strength — the dream of his manhood, the realiza- 
tion that was now coming to him in his older 
years ? 

‘‘Nothing,” he decided, and himself dipped the 
quill again in the ink and signed the paper. 

Denise by those strokes of the pen was legally 
declared a slave, and the possession of her person 
was granted to Don Diego Zanalta. 

Zanalta drew a long breath, and laid the survey 
of the Royal Grant on the desk where the ink 


ONCE MORE ZIZI 


337 


It had been a close battle of wits, and he had 
won. He reached out his hand for the paper 
Lamort had signed, but ere Zanalta’s fingers 
touched it he was dashed aside, the paper was 
snatched from Lamort's extended hand, and the 
slave-woman stood between them tearing the doc- 
ument into bits. 

With a guttural cry like a mad beast Zanalta 
sprang toward her, with the gleam of steel show- 
ing in his hand ; but quick as light she avoided him 
and sped to the other side of her master, clutching 
his arm. 

ask your help for one hour — because of 
this,’’ she said; and drawing forth a chain from 
her neck she held up a piece of coin attached to 
it, a gold-piece with a hole in it — a hole through 
the king’s head. ‘'You have not forgotten,” she 
said ; but his hand only came down heavily on her 
shoulder as she knelt ; with the other he touched 
his sword. 

“We do not knife slaves in our parlors, Don 
Zanalta, even for so great an impertinence as this 
has been. To me she will give an account of her 
action. Speak, Venda.” 

“ No ! ” And she glanced at Zanalta, who was 
watching her with threatening eyes. 

“Venda!” 

“ No, master, not Venda.” And she crouched 
at her master’s feet. “Vendiant — Venda, 
that is name of betrayal. Oh, master! just 
now, this once more, I am Zizi again I am 


338 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


faithful. The false is there — the man who be- 
trayed you, who would betray you again, who 
brings you there a paper of the lands that is a 
lie — for see!’' And she moved to the heavy 
old desk and from some receptacle at the back 
of it brought the original paper that Zanalta had 
sought in vain. But that is little — is nothing,” 
she said, as she laid it in her master’s hand. He 
is most false of all when he says Mademoiselle 
Denise is of slave blood. She — never ! ” 

Steps were heard behind them. Their exclama- 
tions had been heard even beyond the court, and 
Madame Ninon stood there in wonder beside the 
old priest to whom she had been reading. Con- 
stante crossed to her, intending to quiet any alarm 
she might feel ; but Maurice stood in the doorway 
as one paralyzed at the fragment heard : ''Made- 
moiselle Denise of slave blood.” 

"You slave, beware!” And Zanalta took a 
step toward the woman, by his tone forcing her 
to look up and meet the intense significance of his 
gaze. She felt the meaning of it, and for one 
instant shivered. "You are mad,” he went on. 
"Did you not acknowledge that the child was 
taken to the convent by you ? ” 

Just then Maurice saw two figures move hand 
in hand through the palms. He went to meet 
them ; one the beautiful distressed face of the nun, 
the other was Denise, who looked at him with eyes 
of anguish. 


ONCE MORE ZIZI 


339 


'‘Yes/' said Venda, reluctantly, to Zanalta's 
question. 

" So ! yours ; the child of a white father. Mine, 
for you were my property at its birth. You see, 
monsieur, the word of a slave — " 

Victor Lamort's eyes were on the face of Venda. 
What did she mean? Was she indeed that Zizi 
who had been favorite in the last days of Le 
Noyens? And what else was she that she knew 
so much, and dared assert her knowledge — she 
who had known all the life and loves in this house 
years ago ! He touched her on the head. 

" Whose is the child ? " he asked. " Whatever 
your blood, I can trust your word, Zizi." 

"Who spoke then?" asked Sister Andrea of 
Maurice ; and he smiled reassuringly in her 
troubled eyes. 

"That is Monsieur Victor Lamort," he said; 
and you may trust safely to his justice. If you 
will allow me, I will present those papers for his 
notice, and you may rest here under the palms 
for a moment until he comes to you ; and in God's 
name — in love's name, Denise, look not so coldly 
hopeless." 

The girl only looked at him with all that blind 
pain in her eyes. The mere thought that she was 
a slave by birth ! 

But the nun leaned back in the shadows of the 
palm-leaves. 

"Monsieur Victor Lamort," she whispered to 


340 


A FLOWER OF* FRANCE 


herself. ‘'Victor Lamort — the victor of death! 
What does it mean ? And Zizi ! 

The lips of Zizi were pressed on her master’s 
hand in a sort of adoration at the sound of the 
tender Old World name uttered by him. 

“ To-morrow, master,” and her eyes were turned 
on Zanalta, defiantly, “ when we are alone, I will 
tell you.” 

“ To-morrow — devils ! That will be too late — ” 

“ Too late ? Oh, yes,” and Lamort smiled care- 
lessly ; “ you had planned a little sailing trip, had 
you not, and waiting will interfere? Well, the 
weather promises fair, and a day sooner or later 
should not matter.” 

“What do you know of my plans?” he de- 
manded, angrily, though he was striving hard to 
keep his temper. 

“ Only that the former commander of the Sea 
Gull has sold her to me, and will be seen no more 
on these shores,” remarked the other ; “ and in the 
transfer it was mentioned that the vessel had been 
promised you for a few weeks. It was a matter 
of indifference then, but not quite so much now, 
senor. This false paper has changed much in my 
eyes, and I am suddenly reminded that a com- 
panion — a lady — was to go with you.” His 
voice grew more and more stern as he continued, 
and in the wake of his own words came the realiza- 
tion that it must have been Denise who was to 
go with him. “I shall trouble you now, Don 
Zanalta, to inform me who that lady is.” 


ONCE MORE ZIZI 


341 


“ It was to have been Sehora Zanalta/’ declared 
the Spaniard, impatiently. “ But you do me injus- 
tice, monsieur ; and my holiday has nothing to do 
with to-nighCs business. Listen, monsieur. You 
saw that woman's confession, which she now 
denies. The girl is my slave, but refuses to own 
her bond to me. She has won the poorer classes 
to her by her charity and youth, and if there is 
time to warn those plebeians who think her a 
saint, there may be a rising of that mob, and per- 
haps the blacks as well. You know what that 
would mean. They would blindly burn the house 
of every aristocrat. I only ask that which is 
legally mine. I swear Venda has bewitched those 
papers of the survey. I know nothing of it. You 
signed the claim once, monsieur ; sign another. I 
ask only my slave." 

His feverish eagerness told against him; and 
more, Maurice Delogne came forward at that mo- 
ment with the packet given him by Sister Andrea. 

'' Monsieur, this is from the good abbess at the 
convent. You are asked by her to read the con- 
tents ere deciding the claim of Sehor Zanalta." 

'‘Facts pertaining to the child called Denise," 
Monsieur Lamort read from the enveloping scroll. 
" Chevalier Delogne, will you do me the favor to 
open and read us the main points contained in 
this?" 

He looked weary, and seated himself on the 
couch, leaving Venda kneeling there alone in the 
middle of the floor. He had not yet turned his 


342 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


head to see who it was had entered the room of 
the palms as messenger. 

Sehor Zanalta picked up his hat, with a fine 
air of indifference. ‘'I see some plot has been 
set afoot since my visit to the convent,’’ he said, 
meaningly ; for less than an hour ago the abbess 
pretended to have no knowledge of such a docu- 
ment. I will leave you, monsieur, to the perusal 
of these forgeries.” 

“I think you will find this genuine enough,” 
declared Delogne; “ it is in the main a letter from 
the mother of the child. She writes to the abbess 
on the last days she expects to live. She confesses 
herself utterly friendless but for a slave-girl, Zizi, 
who may be taken from her any hour by her rela- 
tives, who consider she has disgraced them. She 
has no means of proving her marriage, but de- 
clares that she is a wife. And here is a note 
signed by Mother Agnace, saying, ‘ This letter is 
from the mother of the child Denise, whom she 
in this testament wishes to be reared in the con- 
vent, and later take the veil, as her life in the 
world, a female child and nameless, would be one 
of sorrow and shame.’ ” 

The pale, beautiful nun had involuntarily arisen, 
with a low cry, as those lines were quoted. Denise 
caught her hand, and found her trembling so 
that she could scarcely stand. 

'' Oh, continue — continue ! ” she muttered. Her 
agitation was much greater than that of Denise. 

'‘More,” went on Delogne. "The abbess of 


ONCE MORE ZIZI 


343 


that day, Mother Agnace, affirms that she knew 
the writer of this letter from her childhood, and 
firmly believes in the statement that she was at 
some time married, though circumstances were 
such that she was forced to live and die under the 
name of Mademoiselle Felice Henriette St. Malo.’’ 

Master!” cried the slave-woman, warningly, 
but too late. 

He arose, looking at them with a deathlike face. 

‘Tehee — my wife! Our child, then — our 
own child, that I signed away for this hunger of 
vengeance. Oh, my God!'’ 

They thought him mad. Denise arose and 
stood beside the nun. 

“What does it mean?" she asked. “Oh, tell 
me, some one ! I am not a slave, then — I am not 
a slave?" 

But Delogne, looking from the strange face of 
Venda to that of her master, doubted his madness. 
He remembered too well a story told him by La- 
mort — that story of the exile. 

“Your child? Be careful what you say, for 
there are listeners. Your child. Monsieur La- 
mort?" 

“Not that name," he said, shaking his head; 
“the quest I borrowed it for is dead from this 
hour. The vengeance I have sought for years 
has turned a weapon against my own heart. Zizi, 
you were faithful. Bring me my daughter ; bring 
to me also the priest from the country of the red 
men. He knows if Felice St. Malo was a wife 


22 


344 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


or not. He must tell these people, every one must 
know, and then my child and I will sail far out 
to lands like paradise. Oh, my child, my child ! 

''Ah!” — a field of limitless expanse spread 
before Zanalta as he realized who Lamort must 
be to have been married to Felice St. Malo — 
" monsieur, if I am on the right track at last, you 
and I were rivals once, and you have played me 
some ghostly pranks since. All at once a veil has 
dropped from my eyes, and I see I was blind never 
to suspect until now, for your voice was often a 
puzzle to me ; but we can not afford to be enemies, 
you and I, and if Denise is your daughter I pre- 
sent myself as a suitor.” 

Monsieur Lamort seemed not to hear. Delogne 
touched his shoulder, and when he turned Denise 
was standing beside him with her hands held out 
and all her face aglow. 

He dropped his head on her shoulder with 
a sob. He had withstood all the cruel blows of 
years and made no outcry, but at the sweet linger- 
ing of his child's hands about his face his heart 
seemed to break. 

"And you forgive me! Oh, child! I never 
dreamed there was aught in this world left to me 
but to harden my heart and crush the people who 
had hurt your adored mother and me. It is over 
now. We will go away from here — you and I 
and faithful Zizi. I am bewildered with my joy. 
Speak to me, Denise ; tell me you are glad.” 

" I would not know how to find words enough,” 


ONCE MORE ZIZI 


345 


she said, with smiles and hands caressing him. 
‘Ihave scarce heard how it is that you have an- 
nounced yourself my father, but I accept it with- 
out question, and am happy.” 

‘‘ Then she held out her hand to Delogne. It 
was you who said to me, ' Your father wants you,' 
and you will always be my friend because of those 
words.” 

Lamort smiled into Delogne's eyes. ‘‘Is that 
not better than a plantation ? ” he asked ; “ but not 
that one,” and he nodded to the survey of the 
Royal Grant. “I am done warring. Take back 
your scrolls, Diego Zanalta. It was your land I 
would have stripped you of by that survey; but 
it is all over. I have found Denise; and you, 
Maurice, shall not be the loser. Come now, my 
child; we will see good Father Luis and then you 
will learn how I came to be your father.” 

The slave-woman had but entered the room of 
palms on her errand to the aged priest when she 
saw him in a group gathered about the form of 
Sister Andrea, who had suddenly swooned. Ma- 
dame Ninon held her head on her knees, while the 
priest fanned her and whispered prayers over the 
form that looked so lifeless. Monsieur Raynel 
had been dispatched for water. 

“May I help?” asked the slave. “Pardon, 
little madame, but there is too much cloth about 
her face and throat — if you could loosen it — ” 

But Ninon drew back. It seemed to her a sac- 
rilege to disturb the garb of a devotee. 


346 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


Venda herself pushed back the bands from 
about the face, and as she did so the light for the 
first time fell clearly across the closed eyes, and 
with a loud cry the slave fell on her knees. 

''Oh-a-me! oh-a-me! little mistress! my little 
mistress ! ” She rocked herself in a very ecstasy 
of excitement. ‘'Oh, master — Master Basil! 
May your God strike Zizi dead if she knew ! They 
at the convent said child died. Then Mistress 
Marie Solle sent me back to town house, for rea- 
son that I love little Mistress Felice too well. And 
word come that my Mistress Felice dead and 
buried way out there on the plantation. Oam-me ! 
that make my heart ache. And Zizi seem to die. 
No one was left alive and kind but you, my master, 
far away — away from Zizi, where she never can 
kneel to you ; and each time she think of you in 
all the years, the wool get more and more white, 
like when the old, old years come on heads. And 
all the time I never was told little mistress was 
alive in the world.’' 

She was groveling at the feet of Monsieur La- 
mort while she uttered all the passionate dis- 
jointed sentences. All looked at her in affright, 
for they could see no cause for her cries. She 
was between her master and the figure on the 
floor, and he could not see the face of the woman 
there, only the garb of a nun. 

“ Be silent,” he said, and dropped his hand on 
her shoulder. “You shall tell me some other 
time how it was you took my daughter to the 


ONCE MORE ZIZI 


347 


convent gate. You have served me well. I will 
not forget.'’ 

She drew aside at his bidding, and sat there 
crouched against the wall, watching him with a 
strange yearning in her eyes. 

''Zizi has served you well, has she?" she mut- 
tered to herself. ‘^Zizi served you well — oh, my 
master ! " 

Lamort released Denise when she perceived 
Sister Andrea there on the cushions, and she was 
watching anxiously for the bits of color coming 
back to the lips. 

''Dear Sister Andrea," she said, with great 
tenderness, as the eyes of the nun opened and 
gazed at her dreamily, as if scarce awake, "you 
have made yourself ill over my sorrows and joys; 
but the joys are so sweet now, you need only re- 
joice with me." 

" Yes," said the nun, with her eyes still on the 
happy face of the girl. "Do not mention his 
name, but only kiss me for him." 

"She is not yet conscious of where she is," 
whispered Denise to the priest; but he, with a 
long look at the two, arose tremblingly, a frail, 
weather-beaten old man, but with the light of a 
strong soul shining through his eyes. 

He walked over to Lamort, who had just ceased 
talking to Zizi, and who reached his hand eagerly 
to the priest. 

"Pardon me, father, if I have scarce heeded 
your presence or that of the nun who was my 


348 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


child’s companion ; but you, to whom all my life 
is known, will understand what finding my child — 
the child of Felice — means to me. In truth, I 
feel like one in a dream. And I was just about 
to visit you, that you might tell our daughter how 
it chanced we were wed in secret, and how — ” 

''Yes — yes, we will tell her in good time,” 
assented Father Luis; "but just now there is one 
other thing of which I would speak, my son. Your 
wedding was secret in that year long past ; but the 
man who was you long ago is legally dead by the 
records, so you tell me. Why, if Felice yet lived, 
could you not claim her now, with all your world 
for witness?” 

"Claim her before the world! Yes, if she 
lived — yes, a thousand times. Oh, you know — 
you know ! Why do you speak like this to-night ? ” 
And he dropped his head on the high-carved 
cabinet, hiding his face as though to conceal 
tears. 

" Come ! ” said the priest, and took his hand as 
though leading a child ; with a gesture he waved 
back Madame Ninon and the two young gentle- 
men from the couch where the nun lay. "Sit 
still, my child,” he said to Denise; "they may 
want you as a witness this time.” 

"They?” Lamort had walked where he was 
led, not seeing, because of bitter, longing tears 
that could not be cleared from his eyes in an in- 
stant; then he was conscious that Denise was 
kneeling beside the couch. 


ONCE MORE ZIZI 


349 


And on the couch ! 

He stepped back, with a cry akin to horror, it 
was so piercing, and stared at the face there as 
though frozen and mute. 

And then the sweet-faced nun reached out her 
hand. 

‘‘ Basil,’’ she whispered, I am not dead, though 
I thought all else was dead for me.” 

Silently he gathered her in his arms, great 
tears falling on her face as he kissed her ; but he 
spoke no word, and she seemed to expect none; 
they were together. 

‘It is your mother,” said the priest to the won- 
dering Denise; and the woman she had called 
“sister” reached a hand to her. 

“Could we love each other better had we 
known ? ” she asked ; and the fond kiss of Denise 
said “no.” 

And over against the wall still sat the slave- 
woman, rocking, and watching like a figure of fate 
first Lamort and then Zanalta, waiting for some- 
thing she felt was coming. 

And the eyes of Zanalta saw the embrace, and 
he heard again “ Basil ” — and “ Basil ” whispered 
in utter fondness. 

“Who is it — what does it all mean?” asked 
Madame Ninon, in half-fear of the wild emotions 
surging around her. She was clinging to the 
arm of Constante, in utter forgetfulness of her 
late pique. 

The priest heard her question, and spoke from 


350 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


the head of the couch where he stood with hands 
stretched over the group there as though in bless- 
ing — a great joy shining in his eyes : 

''Eighteen years ago the hands of this man and 
this woman were joined by me in marriage. They 
were but a youth and maiden then, and each dear 
to my heart. We have drifted wide apart since 
those days, and whispers arose against her fair 
fame in this town of Orleans. But here, with 
their child as witness, I, Brother Luis, declare 
that Felice St. Malo was made the lawful wife 
of this man. Let no breath of shame ever again 
touch the air about her.’’ 

But Zanalta, followed by the watchful eyes of 
the black woman, stepped nearer the man known 
so long as Victor Lamort, and touched him on the 
shoulder. 

" Monsieur Basil de Bayarde, you do not reply. 
I make offer of my hand and name for your 
daughter.” 

" My daughter shall make her own choice of a 
husband,” said the other without raising his head. 

" Have you forgotten that you may yet need a 
friend on this island of Orleans ? Where will you 
find so able a one as myself to fight the things 
you must fight when word gets abroad that you 
are here? Come, we need each other — you and 
I ; what bond so strong as your daughter ? ” 

But the other waved him away with a gesture 
of disdain, and Madame Villette laid a persuasive 
hand on the arm of Zanalta. 


ONCE MORE ZIZI 


351 


Come, Diego, it is best for you to be in your 
own house, is it not ? From what I have heard here 
you do not seem to play a pretty part in the affairs 
of our neighbors ; and as you wished but to-day 
that I make purchase of your estate here and 
leave you free to roam for a season, I think it 
well now to assent to your wish; and I fancy 
also that the farther you sail the happier will be 
those who do not sail with you/^ 

But he broke from her fingers, with an oath. 

I do not sail until I have stripped that galley- 
slave of a part of his wealth,’’ he declared, with a 
cruel laugh. Wife, daughter, and landed estates, 
eh ? Well, my man, I will put you back in your 
chains again or die trying; for you are Basil de 
Bayarde, an outlaw, whose life is forfeit to the 
crown. You are the man who in these gardens, 
eighteen years ago, murdered Gaston le Noyens.” 

‘‘No!” 

In his fury he had forgotten the slave-woman 
coiled there like a crouching animal, a strange 
light in her eyes as she rose to her feet. 

“ He did not,” she said, in a strange level tone. 
The color and excitement were all gone from it 
now ; but as Zanalta made a step toward her she 
smiled quietly and showed in her hand the slim, 
wicked-looking dagger Madame Ninon had iden- 
tified but a while before. “You will keep away. 
Master Diego, until I speak — I, Venda, once 
called Zizi in this house long ago. That man,” 
and she pointed to her master, “has felt pain 


352 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


enough in his heart — no more! For years he 
has ached under a load a coward woman let him 
bear because the blackness of death made her 
afraid, and she loved to live in the warm sunshine. 
But I will tell you, old master, whom the people 
call Father Luis — open your ears, for you are 
the church witness ! To the land where my people 
ruled came one of your race when I was a girl, 
young as that,’' and she pointed to Denise. Slaves 
were bought from us and decoyed to the decks of 
the white men’s boat, but one went bound only 
by the love of her lover. She was not of the slave 
caste. She trusted when he said that on his 
shores she would rule as on her own. She dreamed 
the dreams he taught her, for she was a child — 
no more. On his own shores he was called Le 
Noyens, and he was false. He placed her like 
the slaves in his house, and when her pride was 
hurt and she cried out against it, then what did 
he ? The arms he had caressed were bound with 
chains. The shoulder he had kissed was burned 
deep with an iron, as they brand slaves for evil 
deeds — you see?” And she bared her shoulder 
that they might see the cruel stamp of the iieur- 
de-lis. ‘Ht was burned so with that sign of a 
king who lived across the water. She took her 
vengeance when it came to her, and he died from 
a knife in her hand. That man, Diego Zanalta, 
saw it. He has known the truth all these years — 
the years when I was a coward. That is over. 
Oh, my master, my master ! I can see you suffer 


ONCE MORE ZIZI 


353 


no more. You shall never more stand before the 
judges. Nor will Zizi ever wear their chains 
again, though I confess. I ask you all to hear. 
I killed Gaston le Noyens — so! — to pay for — 
the gift he — he gave me — for this flower of — 
France.’’ 

The slender dagger was driven to the ivory 
handle in her own bosom ere any of them guessed 
her intent; and her eyes — devoted, appealing — 
turned to the man who had borne her guilt, but 
for whom she now was dying. 

“Zizi! Zizi! our poor Zizi!” he moaned, and 
raised her head, while Felice sped to her side, 
weeping and caressing her brown hands. 

The dying slave gazed at her mistress and at 
Denise. “Good-by, little white one,” she said, 
and then rested her white-crowned head fondly 
against the arm of Basil de Bayarde and looked 
up at him with all the unspeakable devotion that 
had oppressed and ennobled her. 

“My master!” she whispered, and then all 
was still ; and Basil de Bayarde raised in his arms 
a dead woman — a dead woman who had at last 
lifted the cloud from his life and the lives of his 
loved ones. 

And in all the sunshine and honor of the years 
that followed he never forgot her. 

FINALE. 

Is it needful to say that Ninon recovered from 
her pique and shared her whims and her poverty 


354 


A FLOWER OF FRANCE 


with Constante for many a year ? She also suc- 
ceeded in persuading Diego that departure from 
Louisiana was the only part of wisdom left for 
him, and he, together with Sehora Mercedes Sofie 
Zanalta, took ship together for Spain. 

Denise did indeed sail in the Sea Gull, much 
as Don Zanalta had arranged, except that he was 
not of the party. But Ninon was there with her 
fiance, and Chevalier Delogne was ever within 
whispering distance, and even Father Luis was 
with them in their holiday ; while those two older 
hearts, separated long ago by a tragedy, and in 
the midst of tragedy united, paced the deck of 
their pleasure-ship many a starlight night, and 
took up again the thread of their love-story — a 
love never forgotten by the nun Sister Andrea 
or the exiled ranger De Bayarde. 

And over the water would sound sometimes the 
tones of a violin, and the young people would 
listen in wonder to the wild sweet notes flung 
out over the sea, and would slip away in a group 
to whisper of the eerie spell it wove around them. 
They could seldom laugh or dance when Monsieur 
De Bayarde played thus in the dark. It was his 
sole remaining link to those long years of sorrow. 
But Felice understood, and her gentle caressing 
hands would lead him away from the dark 
thoughts of the past. She never heard of that 
other wild musician and gamester who had once 
walked the same deck, for though the sailors of 
the vessel were the same men, they were faithful, 


ONCE MORE ZIZI 


355 


and cared little by what title it pleased their cap- 
tain to be known. 

So Rochelle was heard of no more, and only to 
Zizi's love had his secret been known — Zizi, who 
lay in the tomb with that pierced coin on her 
breast, and above her a marble put there by Basil 
and his wife Felice. 

And on it was cut the name ‘‘ Zizi,'^ and below 
it the graceful sculptured lines of the fleur-de-lis. 


THE END. 


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